


We Should Be a Settled Argument

by out_there



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Blackgate Penitentiary (DCU), Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Nygmobblepot, Offscreen Violence, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Season/Series 05, incarceration, oblique mentions of Ed's bad childhood, set after 5x11, ten years apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29141082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: Who would have thought Blackgate Prison and No Man's Land would have so much in common? Restricted food choices, unreliable air conditioning, and surrounded by gangs that can easily be bought, albeit for cigarettes rather than bullets. It's the same posturing and negotiating, and Oswald could do it in his sleep. It's almost relaxing, if you ignore the bounty on his head from the Russians and the grumbling from the Irish.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 120
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Celli for cheerleading this for months. Thank you to Meadow Lion and atankfulloflove for beta-reading.
> 
> There are two songs I listened to a lot while writing this. The first was Something for Kate's "I Will Defeat You" (<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkeXoLo1o30>) and the second was Dessa's "Half of You" (<https://youtu.be/hlkxYU2Vc4g>) which is where the title comes from.
> 
> Ed's riddles come from three sources:  
> https://riddlesbrainteasers.com/night-come/  
> https://allpoetry.com/poem/12264753-Riddle--Scar-by-ShadowGurl369  
> https://www.reddit.com/r/DnD/comments/9e6inu/is_my_patience_riddle_too_obvious/

In some ways, Gotham remains comfortingly familiar, especially the GCPD. The interview rooms remain the same dull grey they've always been; the Formica table is scratched and the wooden chairs are unforgiving. It's enough to make Oswald's bad leg start to ache.

"Lawyer," Oswald says, repeating the only word he's said for the last hour. This is the third time the GCPD has pulled him in on trumped-up charges in the last four months. They've developed a routine.

First, Bullock and some underling will spend twenty minutes asking questions Oswald ignores. Then they'll spend another twenty trying to goad Oswald into losing his temper. Then Jim Gordon will walk through the doors, clean-cut jaw still irritatingly handsome. He'll sit down and try to be professional, pretend to be friendly while he asks the same questions about the case. 

Each time, Oswald ignores them and asks for his lawyer. He might have to bite his own tongue to make sure he doesn't talk, but Ed is doggedly insistent on this point. Anything said without a lawyer present is an unnecessary risk.

"Sure you don't want to claim insanity?" Bullock asks, leaning his elbows forward on the table. Oswald eyes his lank, scruffy hair and wonders if the man even showered this morning. "We could get you tucked up safely in Arkham by tonight."

Oswald feels his left eye twitch. He takes a breath and forces his knuckles to unclench. "Lawyer."

"Oswald," Jim says warmly, as if he's about to ask a favour from a friend. Oswald remembers Jim asking for favours. Remembers how Jim's mouth would twist in distaste even when he had no other options. This friendly smile cannot be trusted. "Tell us what happened. We know the Moraltes offered a price for your head. We know the Moraltes were gunned down with the exact automatic weapons you used to trade. Rumour says you still sell them."

Once upon a time, Oswald would have corrected Jim. Would have explained that he hasn't sold weaponry since law and order was restored to Gotham: too much risk, too many armed thugs roaming the streets. But Ed made him promise to say nothing to the GCPD without a lawyer and, while Ed may have his quirks, his understanding of the criminal justice system is flawless.

Oswald allows himself a tight smile. "Lawyer."

***

It takes nearly five hours for the GCPD to release him. Five hours of one of the most expensive solicitors in Gotham, but the money's worth the growing frustration on the detectives' faces every time his lawyer adjusts her tailored black jacket and says, "My client will not be answering that question."

Seeing that anger and despair on Jim Gordon's face is a balm to Oswald's temper. It's the only reason he returns to the manor in something close to a reasonable mood.

He isn't especially surprised to find Ed waiting for him there. Ed's leaning against the dining table, his suit an almost sombre shade of forest green. His long, long legs are crossed at the ankle, but Oswald tries not to stare.

"What was it this time?" Ed asks brightly, curious when he should be concerned.

"The Moraltes."

Ed snorts, shaking his head. "They're reaching. There was no evidence left at the scene. I checked myself."

From anyone else, Oswald would question that smug certainty. From Ed, it's reassuring. As reassuring as it can be while the GCPD is desperate to pin something on him. It's predictable. Those begrudging pardons were conditional upon no further crimes committed. Barbara might be happy to take the opportunity to go legit, but Oswald has no intention of ceding control over Gotham's underworld.

They can pry it from his cold dead hands. And this is Gotham. Even then, he might still take it back. "Did we get Jefferson?"

"First payment was today," Ed says, tapping the brim of his bowler hat with his knuckle. "That makes three judges on the payroll."

They don't need every judge in Gotham. They need every judge that hears homicide and extortion charges. "That leaves Bamford and Collins."

"Bam Bam only takes bribes from cops." Ed tilts his head, and his hat casts shadows across his sharp cheekbones. His grin gleams like the edge of a switchblade. Like the best things in Oswald's life, he's dangerous and more than worth the risk. "I'll start working on Collins tomorrow."

Rather than think about the dangers of Ed's smile, Oswald strides over to the drinks cabinet. He reaches carefully for the scotch, his depth perception still a little unreliable. Honestly, he's lucky it hasn't affected his aim too much. He's still passably mediocre with a pistol and lethally enthusiastic with automatic fire. "Moraltes. Do the guns tie back to me?"

Ed laughs, loud and confident. "Of course not. But we could tie them to the Wolves down at the docks. Let the GCPD go hunting?"

"Two birds, one stone," Oswald agrees, thinking of the difficulty they've encountered in reclaiming warehouse space by the docks. "I'm meeting with them tomorrow. If they refuse to see sense and compromise, we'll have to do our civic duty and inform the GCPD."

***

It's mid-afternoon when Harvey Bullock comes stomping into the club. Oswald stays sitting in the corner booth, his bad leg propped up across the seats and hidden by the table. He manages a completely false smile. "We open at five."

One mournful glance at the bar and then Bullock walks over. There's none of the deferential charm he used to show to Fish. It's irritating, but Bullock is little more than an ape in a cheap suit. His respect is not valuable enough to care about. "How did you end up running this place again?"

"Miss Kean sold the business to me." Barbara needed funds to buy an apartment building and Oswald was feeling nostalgic. He missed running the club, having Gotham's elite smile at him and beg for entrance. It's also an excellent business for laundering illegal cash. 

Bullock buries his hands in his pockets and stays standing, staring down at Oswald. It's such an obvious intimidation attempt that Oswald can't help smirking back at him. "How can I help you, detective?"

"What do you know about the Whyte Gallery?"

"I heard they got robbed."

"By who?"

"I really couldn't say." He could. Of course he could. But his days of needing the GCPD to take down his enemies are long gone. Not that they were ever particularly good at that. In hindsight, he can see that it was foolish to believe the police could arrest Fish or Falcone, or even Maroni. Let them deal with the suicide jumpers and the Arkham escapees; leave organised crime in the hands of someone capable, like Oswald.

"You couldn't, huh?" Bullock pulls a large envelope from his pocket and slides out a few glossy crime scene photos. It takes all of Oswald's self control not to grin at the bright green question mark painted on a wall. "We both know who did this."

"I know that graffiti can be done by anyone. And such an obvious calling card is easy to mimic."

"And you knew nothing about this?"

Oswald has no moral objection to lying to police but it is fun to be able to tell the honest truth. "I was not involved in the planning or the robbery. I don't know how it was done. I merely heard that it had been robbed."

"And how did you hear that?" Bullock asks through gritted teeth.

"I think it was mentioned in the paper."

***

Ed's location isn't a secret he's willing to share, so Oswald has his driver stop two blocks away from Ed's current hideout. It's an abandoned bookstore with a rickety set of stairs that Oswald doesn't appreciate, but he refuses to admit that to Ed. Inside there are lamps and stacks of books tucked into bookshelves -- it gives the room a soft, golden glow. The light glints off the last pieces of Oswald's ill-gotten treasure, like Aladdin's cave brought to life. Propped up on a counter is a large modern art monstrosity, swirls of blues and greens and a garish pop of orange. A piece that was very recently in the Whyte Gallery, if Oswald's not mistaken.

"You like it?" Ed says from the other side of the room. Oswald pulls a face. "It's a Dekat. It'll be worth a small fortune in ten years."

Oswald eyes the ugly splash of colours and says sarcastically, "As long as you're making sound financial choices."

Ed laughs, still too high on a successful heist to take offence. "With all due respect, Oswald, your taste in art is pedestrian."

Sometimes, Oswald misses being called Mr Penguin. He misses the days when Ed was in awe of him. "I like a painting that paints a recognisable picture. Not something that looks like Martin was left alone with tubs of paint and no paintbrush."

That catches Ed's attention. "How is Martin?"

"Doing well. He likes the school." A boarding school upstate that Ed had suggested. He'd combed through a ridiculous number of glossy brochures and helped Oswald narrow it down to three schools -- said it took his mind off waiting for the stitches in his jaw to heal -- and came with Oswald to drop Martin off. And slipped Martin a business card when he thought Oswald wasn't looking.

If it had been anyone else, Oswald would have slipped that business card back out of Martin's pocket and roughed them up on principle. Ed is the one exception, the one person he trusts with Martin's life. "Detective Bullock stopped by. Asked about the Whyte Gallery."

Edward claps his hands together and gives a gleeful spin on the ball of one foot. "If they're asking you, they have nothing."

"No little calling card? No challenging riddle left at the scene?" Oswald can't help nagging, just like he can't help worrying when Ed plans these capers. He knows Ed loves them, but they're unnecessarily showy and too rigidly planned to allow for any variation.

He'd said as much when Ed planned to rob the Gotham City Museum. Well, he'd yelled. Something like, "Are you serious, Ed? Have you lost your mind? You're stealing a million-dollar artifact without weapons or men -- and your brilliant plan hinges on the night guard taking an unscheduled break?" and he might have called Ed a few unflattering names. So Ed had pointed out that he'd timed the guard, then threatened that if Oswald was going to be unsupportive, Ed wouldn't share his plans in future. It's a stalemate that's worked well so far.

Ed thinks that Oswald's own plans lack detail, but Oswald is very good at improvising with a wide range of weapons. Unless it's a particularly difficult job, it's easier for Ed and Oswald to work separately and to their own strengths.

It occurs to Oswald that he almost misses No Man's Land. He doesn't miss juggling the need for ammunition with the need to feed people, or unreliable power and lukewarm showers. He doesn't miss the respect because, with all modesty, there's still crowds of thugs and villains who know and rightfully fear the Penguin's reputation. But he misses the simplicity of having a common goal with Ed. He misses Ed being happily occupied building the submarine, and knowing where Ed was and what he was doing. Knowing he could come around with supplies at any time and be welcomed. 

Not that he's unwelcome now, but he doesn't have a handy excuse to show up with a bottle of wine, freshly baked bread and a home cooked meal ready to be heated. No reason to stand over a tiny gas grill to warm everything and share a meal with Ed over one flickering candle to save supplies.

When Oswald looks up, Ed's watching him, eyes narrowed. He looks like he's about to take notes. "What?"

"I'm not the one who drifted off," Ed replies. "Have you been getting enough sleep?"

"That is rich coming from someone who barely sleeps most nights."

"I only need six hours." Ed gives an elaborate twirl of one hand, as if offering the fact on a silver platter. "You get cranky if you don't have at least nine."

Oswald sneers. "I do not get cranky."

"You get murderous," Ed says, grin bright. "Overcome by rage. And you stop listening to what people say."

Oswald rolls his eyes. This week has involved a lot of late nights at the club and too many morning meetings with the other families. Not that he’s going to admit any of that to Ed. Still... He might have a look at his calendar and start moving his meetings to afternoons.

"Do you have time to stay for dinner?" Ed asks, and Oswald nods before he even thinks about it. What's the point of running Gotham's underworld if he can't change his plans on a whim? "I'll cook."

"And tell me about the Whyte Gallery," Oswald adds because he does enjoy hearing how clever Ed can be, especially after Ed's got away with it. There's nothing better than watching Ed spin a tale, arms moving in big gestures as he explains. There's such an inviting glee in Ed's manner, like he's sharing an inside joke. Like it's them, together, against the rest of Gotham.

***

"That's run by the Georgian bratva," Ed says when Oswald mentions his plans to take a closer look at Barrows Street. He wouldn't mention it if there was anyone else around, but Olga's retired for the night so there's only him and Ed in the manor. "Mostly prostitution, although the GCPD suspected a small amount of arms sales happened at the back of the premises."

"Suspected and did nothing?" Oswald asks snidely, well aware of how reliable the police force has been in the past.

"Oh, I'm quite sure a few of them got paid." There's a sharp bitterness to Ed's tone, a betrayal of trust that he's never truly forgiven. Not for the first time, Oswald wonders what would have happened to Ed if the GCPD had been honest and welcoming. If not for the corruption and mockery, would Ed still be working in the labs now? Then again, without the corruption, Gotham herself would be very different; there might not be a place for Oswald at all. "That's not even your territory."

A greedy part of Oswald is pleased to know Ed keeps tabs on what belongs to Oswald. "It's about to be."

"Really? You're picking a fight with the bratva?" When Oswald looks over, it could be years ago: Ed curious and intrigued, waiting for Oswald to share his reasoning and impart criminal wisdom. Then he grins, sharp and deadly, and says, "Who gets your club when the bratva slit your throat?"

"If you think I'm letting a jumped-up prison gang get a toehold in my city, you're underestimating me." 

Ed shrugs. "Seems like an unnecessary fight."

"This is Gotham. We have ways of doing things, and they need to understand that."

There's a frown on Ed's face, quickly gone. "This can't be about the prostitution. You have no objection to that."

"I respect every citizen's right to make money however they want to, legal or not. But that brothel has bars on the windows and the girls never leave."

"Ukrainian girls, mostly. Hungarian. Oh," Ed says, as if it's only because of Oswald's mother. As if Oswald's sympathies have been stirred by pale blonde hair and that particular accent, a single young woman in a foreign city. It's actually common sense. Slavery drives down prices. One of the first things he did under Pax Penguina was wipe out the human trafficking auctions in Gotham. Crime should be a choice, a dangerous choice but a lucrative one. Otherwise, what's the point?

Oswald's never told Ed about his mother's gentlemen callers, how discreetly money would be added to the coffee jar in the cupboard, how carefully it would be rationed out. How proud Oswald was to get his first job and tuck his week's pay in that jar, how satisfied he felt when those gentlemen stopped calling.

"I'm still working out the details," Oswald says, and Ed gives a disbelieving snort.

"Walk in, talk and then shoot them? Your plans aren't subtle."

"They are when they need to be." Oswald will always be the man who orchestrated the downfall of Falcone and Maroni, and rose from their ashes. "Certainly more subtle than blowing up an entire building."

"Once! That happened once, and I wasn't in full control of my faculties," Ed says, pointing a finger at Oswald's chest until he nods and acknowledges the point. After a petulant sigh, Ed adds, "I'm not working on anything right now. Do you want me to scope out the place?"

Oswald's touched by the offer. "Thank you. If you can find a way to get the young women out safely, I'd appreciate it."

"What will happen to them?"

"I have a few premises downtown they could work in, if they choose to. Or waitresses at the club. Or they can find their own way."

***

Oswald's pouring a drink when he glances out his window and sees a familiar cop car parking outside the club. He looks over his shoulder, but Ed's already standing, flipping his bowler hat onto his head. Technically, Ed's pardoned, but it won't do him any good to be found here. Setting down his drink and leading Ed to the coat closet, Oswald says, "The back exit."

"Are they here to arrest you?" There's an angry edge to Ed's frown, a growl in his voice.

Oswald allows himself a second to feel flattered. "Nothing I can't handle. Honestly, being led out in handcuffs every few weeks does wonders for the club's word of mouth."

Oswald reaches inside to release the hidden latch that swings open the back of the closet. He doesn't bother hiding the trick from Ed, and Ed doesn't pretend to be surprised that there's a hidden exit.

"Raincheck?" Ed asks, stepping through the coats and spare suits hanging there. After all, he'd been there for a reason: an update of where the Georgian bratva had retreated to. Finding someone who doesn't want to be found is the kind of challenge Ed enjoys. More importantly, he excels at it.

"Come by the manor tomorrow," Oswald says, waiting for the secret door to click back to place and then pulling a coat out of the closet. It's thick and well-lined, with a fur collar and subtle embroidery in purple and gold. It also has a razor blade sewn into the bottom hem, since the GCPD has a tendency to confiscate the knife in his leg brace.

He closes the closet door just as Bullock stomps in, grinning like the idiot he is. "Oswald Cobblepot, you're under arrest!"

Oswald rolls his eyes and holds out his hands. "I assume the handcuffs will be necessary again?"

"We're making a scrapbook," Bullock says, closing the metal around Oswald's wrists. He tugs on the chain with enough confidence that Oswald worries that they might actually have evidence against him. He lifts his chin and keeps his head up as they stride across the club, down the elevator, and then to the waiting police car outside. From the corner of his eye, Oswald swears he sees a flash of green suit, but Edward steps back into the shadows before Oswald can glare at him.

***


	2. Chapter 2

It's the same dog-and-pony show. The same grandstanding from Bullock and his forgettable new partner, the same test of Oswald's self-control to stay silent and only say, "Lawyer," when Bullock pauses for breath. He knows it's a waiting game; according to Ed, as long as a lawyer arrives within an hour of being requested, it's considered reasonable by Gotham's judges. Oswald just has to be patient.

He finds himself watching the clock on the wall, high and covered in a metal cage like the clocks in Arkham. It's been nearly forty minutes and Gordon hasn't shown up.

"Is our respected Commissioner not working today?" Oswald asks sweetly, realising a moment too late he should have kept his mouth shut.

Bullock realises it too, from the way his face lights up like a retriever fetching a stick. "We don't need Jim today, Penguin."

Again, the change of routine puts Oswald on alert. He doesn't show it but he can feel his back tighten and his elbows lock. Something isn't right.

Bullock looks disappointed that Oswald doesn't say anything else. He flicks through the folder in front of him, and pulls out two photos, grainy and zoomed in. Bullock grins and slides them across the table. "This time, we got you on camera."

Oswald doesn't touch them. He leans forward, peering down at them with his good eye. Both photos show one of Gotham's seedy alleyways. There's a dumpster next to a brick wall covered in layers of graffiti, a few empty papers littering the concrete. In the middle of the shot, Oswald recognises his own profile, hands over his head to swing a shotgun down by the barrel. In the second picture, Oswald's bent over, the butt of the shotgun striking a fallen man's torso.

Oswald looks back at the first photo. In it the other man's backing up against the brick wall, already sliding down as Oswald raised his weapon.

"Do you know where these were taken?"

Oswald clenches his jaw so tight that he feels a muscle jump in his temples. Of course he knows where it was taken. The alley behind Barrows Street. The photos were from the end of the night, when Oswald had run out of shells and fallen back on tried-and-true methods: swing something heavy until bones break.

Oswald probably killed a dozen men that night, maybe more. A collection of thugs who dared to call him _'Small Birdie'_ to his face, who told him that human trafficking in his city had nothing to do with him. Honestly, he had no choice but to clear them out of Gotham permanently. Not that the GCPD will have much sympathy for his very reasonable motivations. 

Gordon will use it as an excuse to lock Oswald behind Arkham's bars for the rest of his life. Oswald looks down at the handcuffs chaining him to the table. He could pick the lock with his tie pin, but what then? He can't overpower dozens of officers from inside a police station.

"Lawyer," he says, trying not to snarl like a trapped animal.

***

It feels like an ill omen that Jim Gordon doesn't step into the interview room. Oswald's lawyer does her job and stops Oswald from exploding in rage and saying anything incriminating. She also manages to get Bullock to agree to show them the tape.

They wheel in an old heavy TV and play the footage. It's in black and white, but Oswald's limp is clearly identifiable. As is the way he strikes the man, over and over, wild and unfocused, until there's only a body on the ground. At the end, he gives one last kick to the corpse's head before walking back inside. Oswald remembers the satisfied grin on his face; he doesn't know if it's visible on the tape.

"I'll need some time to discuss matters with my client," Ms Rowe says, not even blanching at the violence she just witnessed. "Has the DA suggested a plea bargain?"

Bullock snorts with glee. "With that evidence? Any judge would hang him."

It's a figure of speech. Gotham doesn't have the death penalty. Not an official one.

Oswald waits until the detectives leave the room. Then he counts to ten under his breath, in case there's a lag in any recording equipment being switched off. "You'll need to hire psychiatrists. Enough to prove I'm too sane to be sent to Arkham."

"Once charges are filed," Ms Rowe says, unnaturally calm given how monumentally doomed Oswald has become, "standard procedure is seventy-two hours' observation in Arkham. After that, you'll be transferred to Blackgate Prison on remand."

"And I trust those quacks as far as I could throw them. They'll try to keep me in Arkham. Your job is to keep me out of there."

"Mr Cobblepot." She takes a nervous breath, the first crack in her facade that he's ever seen. "Given the evidence against you, it's very unlikely I'll be able to keep you out of custody."

Oswald isn't an idiot. No matter how many judges they have on the payroll, direct proof of murder isn't something he'll be able to walk away from. If freedom isn't an option, he needs to start planning for his future. "I'll serve time in Blackgate. I won't go back to Arkham."

***

Filing the paperwork takes time, and the GCPD doesn't have enough interview rooms to allow Oswald to wait in privacy. He finds himself back in the cells overlooking the bullpen: officers and detectives completing paperwork at their desks, a constant stream of citizens complaining or being arrested, chatter and busyness that would annoy Oswald on a good day.

It's the worst kind of nostalgia. He remembers sitting here charged with Martin's murder, and, years before that, Galavan's. The place has only changed in the most disappointing of ways. There's no chance of a surreptitious conversation with Ed now; no naive and vain hope that Jim Gordon will repay one of the many favours owed.

Oswald can't help smiling wryly at the thought of that first arrest. How tired and hungry he'd been by the time they caught him. That he'd been relieved just to be in the relative warmth of the police station rather than huddling on Gotham's ice-frosted streets. That he'd thought himself so clever, so certain that he wouldn't survive prison but he could out-think an asylum.

He'd been wrong, but once a mistake is made all you can do is learn from it. This time, he won't spend weeks in Arkham. Even if he has to bribe half of the corrections department in Gotham.

Thinking of bribes… Oswald looks around the cell, immediately discarding the hardened thugs in the corner and the passed-out drunk near the bars. Standing by the outside edge is a young Asian man, mid-twenties, in an expensive jacket and old worn sneakers. Oswald's usually good at recognising career criminals. He'd lay money on the young man being a thief of some sort, probably a pickpocket or shoplifter. A minor crime that won't get jail time and will probably see him released in the next few hours.

Oswald stands up and walks over to him, watching the way his eyes widen and his fingers tug nervously at his jacket. Oswald smiles. He knows how to work with fear. "Do you know who I am?" 

"Yes, sir." From the way he shies back and hunches his shoulders, he knows Oswald's reputation.

"You are going to do me a favour." It's not a question, but the young man nods nervously. Frowning, Oswald considers the ring on his pinkie and his tie pin. The ring was his father's but the tie pin could be used as a makeshift lockpick if he needs it. Practicality wins so Oswald slides the ring off his finger. "What's your name?"

"Jenn. Everyone calls me Jenn."

"When they release you, Jenn," Oswald says, taking the young man's tense hand and pressing the ring into his palm, "take this to the Iceberg Lounge. Ask for Tony. Give him this ring, tell him I promised you two hundred dollars for it, and tell him he's been promoted to manager. Got that?"

"Yes, Mr Penguin."

"And have him tell Olga I won't be home for a while," Oswald adds, remembering Ed's raincheck to continue their discussion. Olga will let him know.

There's a loud rattle on the metal bars and a smirking uniformed officer. "Cobblepot, your transport's here."

Oswald turns and walks out with as much dignity as he can.

***

The Arkham uniforms are scratchy and thin, and the wide stripes make Oswald look even shorter than he is. It's loud at night with murmurs, yells and occasional sobs, and no matter how tightly he curls up on that miserable thin bed, the cold draft cuts straight through his single blanket. Seventy-two hours' observation should be easy to survive, but after shivering through the second restless night, Oswald can feel his temper fraying.

It's probably not helped by the stream of psychiatrists wanting to talk about his life experiences and his routines and how he copes with stress. (Sometimes, it's hard to resist the urge to be honest: he knows how to direct his stress towards someone who deserves a good beating.) He confirms with all of them -- both the Arkham employees and the private doctors arranged by his lawyer -- that everything he says is confidential and that no acknowledgement of potential crimes could be used as a confession. That these sessions are only to judge his mental state, not his legal guilt. Then he tells them exactly what he did and why.

He is not suffering under a delusion. He does not believe he's being controlled by some other entity. He understands the rules of society and breaks them knowingly, because he wants money and power. He is a criminal, not a lunatic.

A few of the doctors look uncomfortable but most of them keep their unsmiling facade constant, keep their tone neutral as they take notes. It feels like going to the Founders Dinner, being silently judged by Gotham's elite and found wanting, but he doesn't need them to like him. He needs them to confirm he's sane enough to be tried and punished with a prison sentence.

Understandably, he's not entirely thrilled to be escorted from his cell -- since solitary is far better than being forced to participate in group activities -- for yet another session. He's led to the plain consulting room used by guest psychiatrists and greeted by a very familiar voice saying, "Confidentiality is so important, but if he does need to be restrained, I just press this button here?"

"You press, we'll come running," the guard says in a dull tone that suggests running might be a slow saunter in his case.

"Oh, thank you," Ed says earnestly, pushing a pair of thick-rimmed, square glasses up a wide prosthetic nose. He's wearing a tan knitted sweater and khakis, with some kind of padding to give him a potbelly. His hair is streaked with grey and hanging loose. There might be something on his skin: it looks thin and wrinkly. "I feel so much better."

"Sure thing, Doc. You want us to cuff him?"

Ed gives Oswald a timid, frightened glance, making a show of considering the offer. It's a ridiculous expression on Ed's face. "Oh, um…"

"I assure you, Doctor," Oswald says smoothly, before Ed does something so ridiculous that he's tempted to laugh, "you're under no threat from me."

"Thank you, Mr Cobblepot. I find a session is so much more effective when the patient is willing." Ed's eyes crinkle at the corners, a smile he can't entirely hide. He turns to the guard. "Thank you so much. At the end of the three-hour session, do I just…?"

"Press the button, sir," the guard says, obviously bored and dismissing Ed from his memory. "We'll escort him out."

Oswald waits until the guard's footsteps fade away before stalking up to Ed and hissing, "What are you doing here? You do realise that this is fraud and identity theft and enough to get you arrested, if anyone recognises you!"

Now Ed grins. When Oswald is being completely serious. The man is infuriating. "It's good to see you too, Oswald."

"Of course it's good to see you. That's not the question. I just prefer not to see you back in the Arkham stripes!" Oswald shifts his weight and Ed frowns, gaze flicking to Oswald's bad leg. "What are you doing here?"

"What happened to your brace?" Ed asks, ignoring Oswald's question entirely.

Oswald rolls his eyes. If he doesn't answer, Ed will be stuck on this topic for hours. "It's with the rest of my personal effects."

Ed gasps in offended shock. "It's a mobility aid."

"It's a metal contraption that could be used to bludgeon someone to death."

"You could use anything to bludgeon someone to death," Ed says brightly.

"Don't tell them that. They'll remove the furniture from my room if they realise." It's good to hear Ed's laugh again. Oswald wants to remember it in case it's a very long time before he hears it again. "Now what are you doing here?"

"I came to break you out. It's easier to escape Arkham than Blackgate."

"As charming as that sounds, I must decline." The idea that Ed came to get him… honestly, that's something Oswald will treasure for years to come. But the fact remains that he currently controls a sizable portion of Gotham's underworld. He can still run a crime syndicate from prison but not if he's constantly on the run from the police. "You might thrive under the challenge of living as a wanted man, but I've always valued stability. When it benefits me. But I do appreciate the offer."

"You want to stay in Arkham?" Ed looks completely bamboozled. He knows Oswald had nightmares for a year after leaving that place the first time. "Oswald..."

While Oswald was nothing but grateful when Ed broke him out the second time, there's a clear difference. Then, he was escaping knowing he would eventually clear his name. Now, that charge will haunt his future indefinitely. It's hard to inspire fear when you have to hide from every cop that crosses your path. "I'll get transferred to Blackgate."

"Still…"

"It wasn't easy to regain control after the Army left. I'm not willing to give it up just to avoid some mild inconvenience." Oswald looks around and takes a seat on the battered old armchair. He props his feet up on the coffee table. "I can still give orders from prison, as long as I have the right people to carry them out."

Beneath the wrinkled skin and grey hair, Ed's expression turns vaguely horrified. "Oswald, you know that I--"

"Not you." Oswald flaps a hand in Edward's direction, banishing that ridiculous notion. "I know you have no interest in claiming territory or a gang of your own. If you ask me, it's preposterous that a master criminal wouldn't want to stake a claim, but I accept it."

For a moment the expression on Ed's face is so softly pleased… The urge to reach out and caress his cheek is almost overwhelming. Honestly, it's the most annoying part of loving Ed. Every time Oswald thinks he has a firm grasp on those silly desires, every time he accepts how much he values and enjoys Ed's friendship, there'll be a look or a moment and it all comes rushing back.

Oswald looks down at the carpet, blinking as he gets his thoughts in order. "With the right instructions and the right incentives, Tony could run things for me. Damian could run the club."

Ed snaps open his worn briefcase and pulls out a paper bag. His footsteps are quiet as he walks around the desk to offer the bag to Oswald. "I'd prefer escaping, but I brought this just in case."

"What is it?" Oswald grouses, pulling soft white flannel out of the bag. He has a sinking suspicion he knows.

"Long johns. It gets cold in Arkham and these won't be seen under the uniform."

"I don't know how I feel about you buying me underwear," Oswald mutters darkly but Ed ignores him. If nothing else, the cotton is soft and warm against his fingers. It will feel much better against his skin than whatever the inmate uniforms are made from.

"You'll need to put it on in here," Ed says, "so the guards don't see you carrying something back."

"Fine," Oswald says and then stares at Ed.

"What is it?"

Oswald rolls his eyes. He's hardly surprised. This is a man who thought nothing of giving a stranger a sponge bath the second time they met. "Turn around."

Ed shrugs as if Oswald's being foolish, but he turns away. Oswald pulls off the striped uniform as quickly as he can but he keeps the Arkham-issue briefs on. He pulls the soft cotton up his legs and over his arms, and already feels warmer.

He watches Ed's back but Ed doesn't try to peek. Oswald shakes his head, knowing there's no reason to be disappointed. Once he has the uniform back on, he sits down. "You can turn around now."

Ed does, spinning lazily to sprawl across the other chair, and resting his feet next to Oswald's on the table. "You never let me put my feet up in the manor."

"That's because it was my furniture. I don't care if you break theirs."

Ed has booked a three-hour session with the asylum, so they spend the rest of the time catching up. It's the nicest afternoon Oswald's spent in Arkham, especially after Ed pulls a silver flask of thirty-year-old scotch out of his pocket.

"How did you get that past security?" Oswald asks, and gets a very long, detailed and audaciously clever retelling. That segues into the story of Ed finding the last three members of the Georgian bratva (and why none of them are currently breathing).

"Good," Oswald says viciously, taking another sip from the flask and handing it back. "Tell me what kind of criminal keeps a security camera on their own property? One that deserves to be taken down."

"I think they used it for blackmail. I would have warned you about it, if I thought you were using the back entrance."

"That's helpful now," Oswald gripes but he's lacking his usual fury. He blames the very good scotch. "My lawyer wants to argue the validity of the evidence but she's not hopeful. Murder one. I'm going to be doing… How many years will I be doing?"

"Most common sentence for first degree murder is forty years, with an average of eighteen years served with parole."

"Eighteen years of being surrounded by murderers and thieves and trying to avoid the authorities' attention. If you threw in some alcohol and good suits, I'd barely notice the difference."

Ed sniggers. When Oswald glares, Ed only grins wider. "Have you seen the Blackgate uniforms? Denim, head to toe. I've never even seen you in jeans."

Oswald groans, heartsick at the thought. "You're a cruel man, Edward Nygma."

Ed only laughs.

Oswald doesn't know what makes him say it. He promised himself he wouldn't, but Oswald feels himself reach out for Ed's wrist and say, "Be careful, Ed. Promise me. Once I'm sentenced, the GCPD will turn their attention to you."

Ed pulls his hand away. Voice dangerously certain, he says, "They won't catch me."

Oswald doesn't say that Jim Gordon caught Ed before. "Just think about going to Europe for a few months. Make Interpol chase you."

"I'm not running from the GCPD." Ed's tone is low and definite, and Oswald has unfortunately learned to recognise a lost cause. "Besides, they have something I want. Can you believe they still haven't reset the master key for the station?"

Oswald is predictably delighted. "They probably don't know you have a copy."

***

Oswald isn't surprised when his seventy-two-hour stay turns into five days. He's annoyed but he knows it's unwise to cause a fuss in Arkham, unless your idea of a good time is spending the next twelve hours heavily sedated. There's no Jerome Valeska running Arkham as his personal fun house, but Oswald still stays in his room as much as possible. There are a few familiar faces he'd rather avoid, and the more time he spends around the assorted lunatics in the place, the greater the chance that he'll lose his temper, beat someone to a pulp and get stuck here forever.

"We've had trouble scheduling a private hearing with Judge Gibson," his lawyer says, pen in hand and ready to take notes. "The DA is arguing that this is a relapse to your former insanity and therefore you are unfit for trial."

"If they think they can leave me here to rot," Oswald snarls, "they are grossly underestimating me."

"We have signed testimony from three psychiatrists to state you are aware of your actions and understand the consequences of them. Once we present them to Judge Gibson, he'll have to authorise your transfer to Blackgate Prison." She stops and gives him a carefully assessing look. "We have no choice right now but to be patient."

" _We_ are not both stuck in this asylum," Oswald bites back. Gibson has taken bribes before, but that won't help now. This case will be too widely publicised for any true violation of the law to happen. No judge would endanger their own reputation.

"It could be good news. I've heard a rumour that your case has been disrupted and that's why the DA is playing for time."

"Disrupted? How?"

"I don't know the details. But we'll argue to get you transferred and to have any time spent here counted towards your sentence."

***

After Arkham, Blackgate Prison is idyllic. Yes, the prisoner uniforms are jeans, sneakers, white T-shirt and denim shirt, but at least the clothes fit. Oswald doesn't spend the day feeling like he's walking around in baggy pyjamas. The cells are smaller: space for a bed, a toilet, a sink and not much else, but there's no restraints soldered to the bed frame. A wall of bars looks out onto the central space, so there's absolutely no privacy, but the whole block is kept warm and draft-free.

The food leaves something to be desired, bland mush that gets slopped onto his tray, but the cafeteria tables are filled with Oswald's kind of people: thieves and thugs, murderers and career criminals. It's comfortingly familiar.

On his first day, Oswald sits alone. He eats, trying to ignore the lack of flavour -- Arkham did believe in recognisable vegetables even if he had to eat with a plastic spork -- and watches the room. The flow of prisoners from the lunch queue to the tables, the various groups and their claimed spaces. It's the same during their afternoon yard time, different groups marking out their territory, and Oswald's always been good at seeing the currents of power.

His reputation is fearsome enough that nobody talks to him until the second day. Even then, it's just an overgrown goon flexing his muscles, trying to loom over Oswald as they wait in line in the hallway, grunting threats about how he likes dessert and Oswald will hand his over if he knows what's good for him.

Five years ago, Oswald might have cowered and feared for his life. Might have agreed and offered whatever this imbecile needed. Now, he's the Penguin. He's killed mayors and goons alike. He's Fish Mooney's successor and he's held Gotham in the palm of his hands.

He smirks and relishes how the prisoners behind the meathead edge away. "Do you know who I am?"

"The runt who's going to give me his dessert," the goon replies, thinking he's very clever.

"I'm the Penguin."

"No, you're not."

Oswald blinks in shock. "What?"

"I've heard of that guy. He's vicious and bloodthirsty, not some five-foot-nothing runt."

Oswald almost laughs but that wouldn't do his reputation any good. Instead, he leans out of line and looks at the queue of men in faded denim shirts. "Raise your hand if you know who I am."

A few hands shoot straight into the air -- good to know who's afraid of him, mostly petty crooks but they could be handy. Slowly a few more join them. "Thank you, gentlemen. Perhaps one of you could explain that to my friend here? Using small words."

Oswald turns around and faces the cafeteria doors again. It's a calculated risk to turn his back on a man he's just humiliated, but the impression of being untouchable is worth the danger. He shuffles forward when the line starts to move and doesn't look over his shoulder once. Today's dessert is a sickening strawberry pudding that Oswald hates. He eats every mouthful on sheer principle.

***

Even for a high profile case like his, the gears of Gotham's legal system turn slowly. It takes weeks before he's back in the comforting structure of a three-piece suit, sitting beside his lawyer as DA Dent makes his opening remarks.

Oswald tunes out most of it. He's still thinking of Jim Gordon catching him by the elbow outside the courtroom.

"We know it was you," Gordon had growled, the soldier showing through the new commissioner's trappings. "We don't know how he did it, but we know it was on your orders."

It was the easiest thing in the world to smile smugly, to remember Gordon shooting him in the knee and begrudgingly signing the pardons, to keep his tone sweet and know Gordon would assume he was lying. "I'm sorry, old friend. I really don't know what you're talking about."

"It won't stand, Penguin," Gordon said, and then stalked away when Oswald's lawyer approached in her no-nonsense black suit and dark heels.

Gordon's comments don't make any sense until Harvey Bullock gets on the stand. For once, the man seems to be wearing an ironed shirt and has tied back his hair. He almost looks like a half-decent detective. The DA runs through details of the crime and then the process of arresting Oswald, the evidence that led them to solving the crime. When they mention the tape, Ms Rowe tenses and reaches for the file in front of her. She quickly flicks through the pages of legalese, pausing when she finds the DAs submitted evidence list.

The tape isn't on there. Without a body or a witness, the tape was the only thing that proved the murder charge. The DA would use it if they had it, which suggests… they don't. Or more accurately, the GCPD doesn't have it. Jim Gordon had said… 

Instinct says it was Ed. Who else knows the GCPD evidence protocols so well? Who else would have the sheer gall to walk into a police station and steal evidence? Who else would risk so much to save Oswald, and simultaneously embarrass Jim Gordon in front of the DA's office and the mayor?

Ed is arrogant and particular, a know-it-all who thinks he always knows best, and Oswald has never loved him more than in this moment.

Oswald looks down at his fingers splayed across the desk, trying to hide his smile. His cuticles are rough, a sad testimony to Blackgate's harsh soap. The first thing he'll do after he's sentenced is take over the contraband imports. Even prisoners deserve soap and moisturizer that don't come in plastic gallon bottles. For the right price, of course.

He glances up when his lawyer starts to speak, but only briefly. There are simple questions to Bullock, the same details he's already answered, and the whole thing is dull. And then she asks about the evidence proving Oswald's involvement, and Bullock mentions the tape.

"The tape that didn't exist in the evidence logs?" Ms Rowe asks politely.

"Your honour, the tape has been misplaced," the DA interrupts. "We're unable to submit it."

"But we're supposed to take your word that it existed?" Ms Rowe turns to Dent, her lips pinched in distrust. "That film showing my client committing murder has mysteriously gone missing? That no copies were made?"

"The DA office had a copy made," Dent says.

The judge frowns down from her perch. "Why wasn't that copy submitted in evidence, councillor?"

Dent clears his throat, clenching his fingers like he wishes he could do something with them. "That copy is missing as well."

"Your honour," Ms Rowe says, "I really have to object. My client is being tried for a crime with no physical evidence, no bodies or murder weapons. There is no known animosity or clear motive that makes my client a suspect. The only evidence linking my client is a recording the GCPD claims to have watched and has now lost. Surely we need more to convict a man for murder than a police officer's word?"

The judge sighs. "Councillors, approach the bench."

They both walk up to the judge and have a murmured conversation that Oswald can't make out. Ms Rowe's face doesn't give anything away, but the DA looks sheepish and annoyed as he returns.

"I'm granting a twenty-four-hour extension," the judge declares. "Tomorrow, Mr Dent, I expect additional evidence proving your case or a review of the current charges."

"Yes, your honour."

***

In the end, the charges get reduced to trespass, destruction of property, and assault and battery. The GCPD still had the two photos printed from the footage, proving Oswald was there and attacked someone, but the disappearance of the bratva could have been due to them leaving the city in a hurry.

It adds up to a ten-year sentence, and the DA manages to argue for no possibility of parole, mentioning Oswald's influence and history of bribing or threatening officials. In return, Oswald's lawyer argues the sentence down to medium security, claiming that a single assault charge isn't enough to justify a sentence in the max wing.

There are only a few differences in the medium security block at Blackgate. Same uniforms, same food, same small cells. A separate yard with different gangs and an earlier sitting in the cafeteria. The only advantage is that medium security is trusted with a prison library, a much better work option than laundry or maintenance.

No, there is one other advantage. The Russians and the Italians have a strong hold over max block; the gangs in medium block are loose affiliations, making it easier for Oswald. He talks to the Street Demonz first and then the Lo Boyz. He gives them the same sales pitch, both on the yard and in their territory.

"Friends, while I will be the first to admit we had our differences in No Man's Land, I have always respected your organisation. I am giving you the opportunity to work for me."

This is where Mando scoffed and the rest of the Lo Boyz laughed. Razzor -- who insists on two z's -- elbowed one of the other Street Demonz and asked the practical question: "What's in it for us?"

"I will be in Blackgate for the next decade, and I plan to be as comfortable as I can. I will be taking over the contraband import business."

"The Russians--"

"Let me worry about the Russians, friend. What you need to know is that I will pay every man fairly, and that I can arrange to pay those wages directly to your families." That's the point that draws their attention. It's something that very few incarcerated criminals can offer. But Oswald has Tony on the outside and Oswald learns from his mistakes. He knows a criminal's loyalty can't be taken for granted. Any underling is a threat that needs to be managed through bribery and intimidation. In Tony's case, he is very well paid and Oswald promised that if he were betrayed while in prison, in ten years' time, Tony and all of his loved ones would die painfully. "Take some time to consider it, gentlemen. I expect your answer this time tomorrow."

As expected, both groups agree and Oswald spends the next few days confirming the minutiae he used to have bookkeepers for. (Sometimes, he really misses Mr Penn, regardless of how truly insane he turned out to be. Getting all of the details right is painful.) By the time he organises an attack on the Russian supply chain, he's surrounded by well-compensated men who have a vested interest in keeping him alive.

***


	3. Chapter 3

"How's it going, boss?" Tony is one of those traditional gangsters who worked his way up from thug to henchman. The type who was once young, tall and broad, and has long since slipped into meaty middle-age in well-cut suits. He's still good with his fists or a gun, but he's not quite ambitious enough to want to take over the Penguin's throne. He's happy enough being the big man on the outside and having Oswald do all the complex thinking for him. So far, it's working.

"Honestly?" Oswald shrugs, letting his grin show. "Easier than I thought it would be. Three months and I haven't yet shanked anyone."

"What about Paul Ryan?" Tony asks, barely dropping his voice. Luckily, the guard behind him has stepped away from the door, clearly not paying attention. Tony knows the game well enough to start by bribing the guards. 

"His head hit the bathroom counter. No shank."

Tony nods, understanding the disappointment of prison life not living up to the cliches. "You got no other complaints?"

He means, did the rest of the contraband get through.

"I have everything I need." Oswald slides a piece of paper across the table, the details of the order for next week. Tony smoothly slides it up his cuff.

Who would have thought Blackgate Prison and No Man's Land would have so much in common? Restricted food choices, unreliable air conditioning, and surrounded by gangs that can easily be bought, albeit for cigarettes rather than bullets. It's the same posturing and negotiating, and Oswald could do it in his sleep. It's almost relaxing, if you ignore the bounty on his head from the Russians and the grumbling from the Irish.

Oswald grins. "If the mattresses were thicker, I'd recommend it as a holiday destination."

***

There are things that Oswald enjoys about prison. The polite way the guards rap at the bars of his cell and wait until he looks up at them before speaking. It had only taken a couple of threats and a few regular bribes to instill a modicum of respect.

"Penguin," the guard says, glancing away like he wants to say 'sir', "can you send a couple of your guys down to the admin office? Your delivery weighs a ton."

Oswald closes the book in his lap. He looks over at Nando and Dwayne sitting in the common area, coincidentally within sight of Oswald's cell at all times. "Certainly," he says and waves them both over. Two men from the Street Demonz just happen to step up to take their seats.

They return carrying a small but very thick mattress between them. It's the perfect size for one of Blackgate's ungenerous cots, but instead of three inches of cheap foam, it's nearly a foot of heavy latex. It reminds Oswald a great deal of his mattress back in the manor, expensive and indulgent.

"Your lawyer spoke to the warden about it and got it all approved." Nervously, the guard adds, "We had to open up the packaging to check it, but we didn't open the letter from your lawyer."

Oswald takes the sealed envelope, complete with the legal correspondence stamp and his lawyer's logo in the corner. "Thank you," he says, because he's trying to remember to be gracious to the officers who might be working here until he gets out.

"There's linen coming, too," the guard adds. "It's still going through security checks in the mailroom."

"Dwayne, could you carry the old mattress back for Officer Brydon?" Oswald asks and Dwayne nods. He picks up the old mattress easily and follows the guard out.

Nando glances out at the common room. The gangs may work for Oswald, but, until he can get a television in his cell, the common area is far more appealing to them. "You mind?"

Oswald waves a gracious hand towards the area beyond his cell's bars. "Go ahead."

He waits until he's alone in his cell before opening the letter. It's on his lawyer's stationery and the letter sounds suitably professional, discussing the legal requirements of a prison to allow for physical restrictions if possible and medical advice that a new mattress is likely to ease the discomfort of his pre-existing injuries. It all sounds perfectly reasonable, except for the fact that Oswald's never discussed the thin mattresses with his lawyer. He's never ranted to her about the metal cots and the insufficient padding.

He reads through the letter again, trying to make sense of it. Then he sees it. Below her signature, where her name is carefully typed, there's a shadow around the curve of the R. A green shadow that follows the curve and then comes down the kick, only to stop halfway. At the very bottom of the kick, there's a green dot. When Oswald slants the page sideways, it's very clearly a question mark.

Oswald turns his back to his door. It wouldn't do for the rest of the prison to see his fond delight. Only Ed would have the sheer gall to imitate a lawyer and knowing Ed, there's more to the mattress than meets the eye. 

Oswald takes another look at the mattress, the stitching around each corner and seam, and eventually he finds it. There's a stretch of stitching in dark green thread, dark enough it might appear black on a quick glance. It's along one edge of the manufacturer's logo. Oswald fishes out the shank he keeps at his ankle -- nothing more sophisticated than a half-melted toothbrush with a razor blade set into it -- and cuts the thread. Beneath that shiny logo, there's a small space, six inches by three inches, maybe six inches deep. A perfect place for hiding weapons and treasures. When he reaches inside, there's an envelope addressed in Martin's childish handwriting, to Uncle Penguin, care of Mr Riddler. It's detailed and sprawling the way that Martin's letters always are, talking about vengeance carried out on mean classmates, a new class pet and a possible co-conspirator with equal enthusiasm.

When Oswald finishes reading it, he returns the letter to its secret nook and goes back to reading his book. Or tries to. His mind keeps wandering to Ed and the detailed thoughtfulness of his gift. He must have researched the precise measurements of the Blackgate cots. He must have travelled up to Martin's school to collect the unposted letter. It would be so much easier to get over his infatuation with the man if he didn't do things like this.

Then the sheets get delivered to his cell. Two sets, both in a purple so bright it's garish. As if Ed had wanted his bed to draw the eye of everyone in the prison -- and make those eyes water. Oswald pinches his nose and blames himself for expecting any form of subtlety from Edward. Really, he should know better.

***

There's an easy routine to prison life. The day is broken up by mandatory counts, scheduled meals and movements. Oswald considers getting a prison job to fill in the stretch of hours in between, but most jobs involve a lot of standing or walking, and he fundamentally objects to being paid pennies per hour. Besides, those prison jobs are important income sources to other inmates and he'd rather have customers willing to pay.

So he spends most of his mornings in the library, reading over the shared copies of last week's newspapers. He plays a game with himself, reading about various reported crimes and trying to guess the criminals who committed them. The petty stuff he can guess by location and type, but he's not always right. He's better with the big jobs, museums and banks and country houses of the wealthy; sometimes he recognises Selina's handiwork or Ed's inability to leave a challenge unanswered. (Honestly, the sooner banks stop bragging about their uncrackable safes, the better. Surely he's not the only one noticing that a boasting interview is followed three weeks later by a robbery?)

In the afternoon, he'll sit on his cot, his leg outstretched and comfortable. If the weather's warm, he might stroll around the yard, watching the different groups and giving new customers a chance to talk to him or to one of his lackeys.

On a particularly warm June afternoon, Officer Stevens joins him. "Enjoying the sunshine?"

Oswald stops walking and smiles. Stevens is one of those men who started working at the prison at twenty, filling in time while waiting for their police academy application to be approved. At thirty, he was still working here, married with kids, and realising he was never going to pass the entrance exam to become a cop. And now he's over forty, and retirement benefits aren't too far away. He's taken an occasional bribe but not a regular payoff, and he's never made a cheap joke at Oswald's expense. Oswald likes the man, but it never hurts to be wary.

"Too nice to be indoors," Oswald agrees. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Skullz and Williams stop walking, keeping far enough back that they won't hear anything Oswald doesn't want them to but close enough that they could lunge forward with shanks if Oswald gives the nod. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Actually, yes." Stevens glances down and then looks up, resolute. "I wanted to ask for a favour."

"A favour? From the Penguin?" Oswald blinks, pleased. He's always liked doing favours when he can, being the person that solves the problem. And being owed favours in return is even better. "What is this favour?"

"My oldest girl, she's bright. She wants to go to Gotham University. When you were mayor, you started a scholarship for Narrows kids. We tried to apply, but they said Slater Avenue isn't part of the Narrows."

Technically, it isn't part of the Narrows. The Narrows starts the next street over, but anyone living that close is doing so out of necessity. "So she's lost the scholarship to a child from a poorer area." 

"No, we asked about that. Apparently the scholarship hasn't been awarded for the last two years. There hasn't been anyone from the Narrows to claim it."

"Are you kidding me?" Oswald yells, hands flying out, and Stevens steps back in surprise. "That snooty bunch of eggheads have been taking my money for years! And the only ones benefiting are the university's coffers?"

It hadn't even been his idea. It had been Ed's, back in the day. He'd been fascinated by a report of graduates from Gotham University and spent hours trawling through data, presenting a pinboard to Oswald over one of Olga's magnificent breakfasts to show how only five kids from the Narrows had graduated in the last fifteen years. How an entire section of the city was being academically ignored while the brainless wealthy went to college to host keggers and join fraternities.

"I don't know," Stevens says carefully, "but they said their hands were tied. They couldn't offer it to her unless the scholarship terms were changed, so I was hoping you could write to them. Give them permission to offer it to her."

"What's her name?"

"Lily. Lily Stevens."

"Leave it with me. I'm always happy to do a favour for a friend."

A look of sheer relief slackens Stevens' features. "Thank you. She's a smart girl, but we've got two other kids, and we just can't--"

Oswald holds up a hand. He loves the way Stevens falls silent. "Leave it with me."

***

Lee Thompson doesn't fit into the painted brick walls and black bars of Blackgate. Her hair falls in dark curls, and everything about her looks soft and pretty as a porcelain doll. But Oswald remembers her running the Narrows, her hair as harsh and blunt as the rest of her learned to be. She glances around the visitor's area nervously, but this isn't the first time she's visited someone in prison.

"Mrs Gordon, a pleasure to see you," Oswald says, forcing the words to sound truthful. "Thank you for coming."

"Penguin." Lee gives a graceful nod of her head. She takes a breath and then glances across the table. "What did you want to talk about?"

"I have a proposition for you," Oswald says and immediately sees that those were the wrong words from the way she straightens, ready to go on the defensive. "This is nothing that involves the new commissioner. How is Jim, by the way? Enjoying married life?"

"I thought this didn't involve Jim?"

"Merely making small talk." Oswald shrugs, more than happy to move straight to business. He slides his lawyer's card across the table. "I would like to make you a trustee of a Gotham University scholarship. My lawyer will prepare the paperwork."

"A scholarship? What would I need to do?"

"You would oversee the choice of applicants. You would have discretion over awarding it."

"Why would--" Lee stops herself, looking confused. "Why do you care about this?"

"Because it's my money. That scholarship was set up to give the Narrows a possibility of a better future for their children, and you care about the Narrows."

"I'm retired. I don't run the Narrows any more."

"But you still volunteer at a clinic there three days a week," Oswald replies smoothly. "This year's scholarship will go to Lily Stevens, but I want the scholarship to continue. You are stubborn and determined enough to ensure the university keeps its word."

"I never thought you cared about higher education," Lee says, tone deceptively friendly. "It seems like something Ed would, though."

There are a lot of things Oswald has forgiven Lee for. There are still more that he hasn't. Sometimes he wonders if it would have been easier if he'd left her to bleed out on the floor of Cherry's. But he's trying to learn from his mistakes by not killing women who have slept with Edward and tried to dig their talons into him. That's a mistake he can't afford to repeat. "It was Ed's idea, originally."

"Why not ask him?"

That's why she came. Probably the only reason Gordon let her come. To try to ferret out information on Ed's whereabouts. He did warn Ed this would happen, that the GCPD would make him their next priority. 

"Several reasons. First of all, I don't know where he is, so I can't send him the paperwork. Secondly, Ed's standards for a suitable scholarship applicant might be much higher than any child from the Narrows could achieve. Thirdly, it's going to be an annoying, tedious job spending years dealing with the same academic bureaucrats."

Lee actually laughs, low and throaty. "You might need to work on your sales pitch."

"If it wasn't for me, you would have died from that stab wound. You owe me. And unlike your charming husband, I think you understand the concept of obligation." Oswald works his jaw, pulling back out of Lee's personal space. "You get to help the Narrows, I get to know my money isn't being wasted. This isn't a hard sell."

Lee taps the business card on the table, turning it over. "I'll think about it. If I agree -- and that's a big 'if' -- I'll talk to your lawyer. Not you. I'll give them reports and they can tell you. I won't be back in here to visit." 

She announces it as if it's a deal breaker, rather than something of a personal relief. Oswald has no desire to spend additional time with the commissioner's wife. Still, it doesn't hurt to frown and begrudgingly agree. "If those are your terms, I accept."

She stands up, ready to leave. "I'll think about it," she says again, as if she hasn't already decided.

***

Stevens turns out to be a good investment. He suggests Oswald petition for a television on the grounds that the chairs in the common room are uncomfortable. "If you mention that you keep your leg elevated to manage the pain, the warden will agree. Otherwise, he'd have to discuss pain medication that he doesn't want floating around the prison or adjust the rules in the common area so everyone could put their feet on the furniture. Allowing one personal TV is easier."

Of course Blackgate won't pay for it. Oswald has to get his lawyer to purchase it -- if he got Tony to bring it, the whole thing would be pulled apart to be checked and there's a fairly high chance it would be stolen goods -- and then tells Tony to talk to the delivery guys and arrange a little stopover.

The TV's a hit as soon as it arrives. Suddenly, Oswald's cell is overflowing with brawny thugs bickering over whether to watch car races or _The Golden Girls_. Oswald mostly ignores them and reads -- he's working his way through the biography section of their library, one cunning strategist at a time -- but it's good to keep his men nearby.

Of course, he waits until lights out before checking to see if Tony followed his precise instructions. With the edge of a nail file, he carefully unscrews the back of the TV in the dark, trying not to curse when his makeshift screwdriver slips. Eventually, he gets the cover loose enough to slip open and feels around the wires inside to find a small cellphone. He drops it into his shirt pocket and carefully replaces every screw.

He wants to turn the phone on and check it but sound travels at night. Instead, he sleeps with it in his pocket and waits.

At midmorning, Oswald goes to the bathroom with a couple Street Demonz to guard the door. He flips the phone open and turns it on, and goes straight to contacts. There's Tony, the club and the manor, and one contact entered only as a question mark. That answers Oswald's curiosity about who actually planted the cellphone for him.

He sends Tony a quick text message -- " _Phone received_ " -- and stares at the industrial linoleum on the floor as he waits for a reply. It dings through a minute later -- " _good boss_ " -- and Oswald knows he should turn the phone off. He should.

He doesn't. Instead, he rings the question mark and gets the faint click of a message service.

"At night they come without being fetched," a bored female voice recites, "and by day they are lost without being stolen."

There's a beep and, for a moment, Oswald stares at his offended reflection. A riddle! "Are you serious, Ed? That's the message you leave, some stupid riddle? Eurgh!"

Oswald hangs up, almost tempted to throw the phone across the room. But, no, he wouldn't be able to replace it. Instead, he washes his face at the metal sink and takes a calming breath. The fluorescent lights above are unforgiving to his reflection: long shadows cast from his nose, dark bags under his eyes, lips pressed in a pale, angry line. His damaged eye dilated and making his face look uneven. With good clothes and a little concealer, Oswald could hide most of his imperfections. In Blackgate denim, there's no point even trying.

Things that disappear at day. Something that appears at night. 

Stars, Oswald realises, clicking his fingers. Stars like the asterisk key on the phone's keypad. He dials the number again and this time when the message plays, he hits the asterisk key. There's a dull dial tone and four long rings before it connects to Ed's breathless laughter. "Oswald?"

"Were you expecting someone else?" Oswald replies imperiously. He runs a hand through his hair, using the remnants of yesterday's gel to give it a little shape. At least there are some luxuries still available in Blackgate. There's a clang on the other end of the line and some heavy breathing, and then the blare of a car horn. "Ed? Are you okay?"

"I am," Ed says, panting down the line. The background grumble of angry traffic. 

Someone faintly yelling, "GCPD! Stop!"

"What's going on?"

"I might have mistimed something." Before Oswald can ask what, Ed hisses, "Gotta go, talk later," and hangs up on him.

Oswald waits five minutes for a return call. And then another five. Finally, he turns off the phone and walks back to his cell before the next count.

***

"Earlier today, the so-called Riddler was apprehended in the Diamond District--"

Oswald hears himself yell "QUIET!" loud enough for five adult felons to fall silent. He strides over to the television, viciously shoving anyone in his way. The screen is showing some blonde reporter standing on Gotham's streets, wind blowing her artfully tousled hair.

"Edward Nygma, who calls himself the Riddler, is wanted for a series of murders of Gotham's intelligentsia," she says, and Oswald snorts at the hyperbole. It's not as if Gotham lost anyone irreplaceable when Ed went on that little murder spree. "He was arrested while breaking into Gotham's First National Bank."

Finally the screen cuts to something interesting: security footage of the bank. Edward walks in calmly in a well-fitted suit, the bowler hat sitting at a jaunty angle on his head. He stops and doffs his hat at the security camera, grinning and bowing, and then walks through to the vault. There's a few moments of an empty bank, apparently fast-forwarded, and then movement through the glass doors. A sudden rush of GCPD uniforms running in.

The screen cuts back to their windswept reporter saying, "Edward Nygma will be remanded to Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Commissioner Gordon said he hoped Nygma would receive the help he desperately needed."

Oswald lunges for the TV, turning it off.

"Out, everybody," he says civilly, but they don't move. He bares his teeth at the crowd. "Get out! Now!" 

They scurry for the door.

***

After giving it careful consideration, Oswald calls Tony. Unlike some people, Tony picks up on the first ring because he has a healthy respect for Oswald's temper. "Boss?"

"We need some Arkham guards on the payroll. Start a few conversations. Find out who can be bought."

"You planning to move over there?" Tony sounds doubtful, not that he'd dare criticise Oswald's plans to his face. Most mobsters are suspicious of Arkham and anyone who's been locked up there. Doing time in Blackgate is a rite of passage; time in Arkham marks you as someone unstable and unprofitable.

"Riddler is an ally. I want guards on the payroll."

The trouble with bribing guards is that it takes time. It takes time to recognise who needs extra money, who has an addiction to feed or debts to pay. It takes time and Ed's already trapped in there.

Oswald hates having to wait. But for the moment, his hands are tied. He watches the news over the next few days, but they don't even mention Ed. It's as if once he's out of sight, Gotham's already forgotten him. It leaves Oswald grinding his molars and wishing someone would start something, just to have an excuse to lash out and break bones.

At a knock on his bars, he snarls, "What?"

A few of his men look up from the common room, but everyone's staying back while Oswald's temper is high.

Stevens shifts his weight to one foot, tugging the seam on his uniform sleeve straight. "Can we talk?"

Oswald sits up on his bed and turns to face the uniformed officer. Far from gracious, he says, "Make it quick."

"I've got a friend that works in Arkham. They've got a new inmate who's been throwing your name around."

Oswald scrambles to his knees, grabbing at the bars to pull himself up. "Tell me."

"Look, Nygma said--"

"Riddler," Oswald interrupts. "To you, to all of you, he is the Riddler."

Stevens nods. "Riddler has been saying that he knows you. That anyone who can get a message to you would get five hundred bucks. That you'd pay for it."

Oswald rolls his eyes. Ed's never worried about spending Oswald's money, putting food and drinks on Oswald's tabs, ordering suits at Oswald's tailor and charging it to Oswald's account. Oswald complained about it once and Ed just muttered something about him eating all of the spicy mustard, as if a jar of mustard is in any way equivalent to a bespoke suit. "Fine. You give me the name of your friend, I'll give him the money."

Stevens nods. "The message was: stars at nine."

"And that's worth $500?"

"That's what he said."

"Fine."

***

The stars must be a reference to Ed's phone message, to phone calls, and nine is the time. So at nine that night, Oswald has his head under the covers, his phone screen turned down as dark as it will go. He has the phone silenced. He stares at the minutes on the screen, willing them to change faster.

He has faced far scarier things than this. But the last time he felt this combination of fear and anger he was holding an AK-47. He wishes he was holding one now. He stares at the phone and ignores the way his heart pounds in the darkness.

His stomach sinks when the clock flicks over to 9:01. Maybe Ed meant nine in the morning. Maybe Ed was caught with a phone and is now strapped into a straitjacket. Maybe they've already sedated him, drugged him to drooling insensibility. Or strapped him to a bed somewhere, leaving him to yell and rage until he's hoarse. The scenarios flash into Oswald's mind, one after the other, and those aren't even the ones he's most afraid of. The ones that truly terrify him are Hugo Strange and his experiments, the blurry terror and agony in his horrible machine, Oswald's own memories twisted and turned against him until he was nothing but submission, nausea and fear.

If that's still happening in Arkham, if Oswald finds the slightest proof, he's getting Ed out of there. He doesn't care how much it costs or how many favours he'll owe, he won't leave Ed to that.

The clock says 9:03 when a call silently lights up the screen. Oswald hisses quietly, barely more than a whisper, "Ed?"

"Sorry I'm late," Ed replies, voice equally hushed. "One of the guards was dawdling."

"Are you okay? Are you well? Are--"

"Oswald." He doesn't have to see Ed's face to know he'd be looking up and away, uncomfortable at Oswald's raw concern. Anger, excitement and amusement Ed understands; he prefers to ignore any other emotions. "Apart from a few bruises from the arrest, I'm fine."

"Do you need me to break you out?"

Ed's giggle is quickly muffled, but it settles the fear weighing Oswald's stomach. Ed wouldn't be laughing if anyone had taken over Strange's nasty tricks. "I'll escape on my own. It's a fun puzzle."

Oswald doesn't say Ed's never managed it before. He masterminded Oswald's escape but he's never escaped from within Arkham. "If you decide you do need help, I'm happy to return the favour. Where are you calling from?"

"The admin office. They don't monitor the calls from here."

"How?"

"The air vents," Ed replies smugly.

"The ones on the ceiling? How did you even reach those?"

"Stood on the bed. Jumped. I've done it before. Unfortunately they've added metal bars to the external vents so that's one plan off the list. But it still gives me easy access to map out the asylum and make calls after everyone's locked up safely for the night."

Oswald can imagine it too easily. Ed watching and thinking until he knows the flaws to exploit, finding how to get what he wants right under their noses. As long as he fights the urge to show off about it, he'll be fine. 

"What happened? How did they catch you?" Oswald asks and Ed tells him about a faulty timer wire. The plan had been to rob First National while the GCPD were dealing with a bomb threat in Central Station, but the faulty wire meant the bomb exploded an hour before it should have. Having an assumed deadly bomb explode into a bright green cloud of chalk dust was an obvious sign of the culprit.

"I don't know how they worked out I was at First National," Ed sounds oddly accepting of the fact, "but Foxy was at the scene so I'm sure he put it together."

Oswald's not petty enough to be jealous that Ed has decided Lucius Fox is a worthy nemesis. He knows how annoying -- and sometimes devastating -- Ed can be as an enemy; he'd much rather that energy was focused on someone else. But he'd prefer if Ed didn't sound quite so admiring when he was bested. "Sure you didn't trip a silent alarm?"

"I didn't trip any alarms," Ed says, offended. "I did place the bomb on the first platform so maybe Foxy saw the link there."

Oswald rolls his eyes. It's more likely Lucius Fox also noticed how regularly a newspaper article boasting about security systems preempted bank robberies. "But you're okay in Arkham?"

"Of course." Ed pauses, and then asks incredulously, "Were you worried?"

"No." They both know it's a lie.

***

It's a pity that using the phone too often would draw unwanted attention. Oswald likes the sound of Ed's voice. It's expressive. That gleeful enthusiasm doesn't sound quite the same in the written word but they both agree that letters are a safer option. Oswald seals and stamps his letters, and gets Stevens to post them without their going through the prison mailroom and being read by every nosey guard in Blackgate. They get posted to Tony at the club, then Tony gives them to a well-bribed Arkham guard, who slips them to Ed.

According to Ed's letters, he writes his replies from the admin office at night, using Arkham's own letterhead, and slips them into the outgoing mail tray. The first one he sent to the club. After that, Oswald has Tony rent a post office box for the purpose. Ed seems to enjoy making up names to address the letters to.

This week, Tony slides across an envelope addressed to Dr Sven Ishidai. Oswald snorts when he sees it. _Spheniscidae_ , the scientific family name for penguins. "Ed does love his puns."

Tony shrugs. "If you say so, boss. Do you know what you want us to do about the Triad?"

The Triad have been trying to expand beyond the borders of Chinatown. They should have expanded into Little Korea on the other side of their territory. "They still run games from Monks Lane?"

"Yeah."

"Hit it."

"You sure, boss?"

"Raid it next Wednesday. Take all the cash on the premises." The Triads' money comes from weapons smuggling and underground casinos; Oswald doesn't need a war with them but he needs to make it clear that encroaching on his territory will incur an inconvenient cost. "Try not to kill them. Well, not more than three. Tell them that you have clear instructions from your boss. Every time they step on the Penguin's territory, we'll recover damages from their takings."

Tony nods, hopefully memorising Oswald's words. "And if they retaliate?"

"Raid another casino. The one on Vines. Keep the deaths under three." Even as Oswald says it, he can't help but glance at the sealed envelope on his lap, knowing that this will get added to his next letter to Ed. He'll write out his reasoning and explain how the Triad will retaliate, how they'll soothe their egos with crime outside their territory, and hopefully realise that Little Korea has a few petty crooks but isn't actually organised under any of the main families. If they want more space, they can claim that without it impacting Oswald.

Ed may not care about the status of maintaining control over a portion of Gotham, but he enjoys the strategy side of planning. As an intellectual exercise, he's compared it to playing chess with real armies. Oswald thinks it's more like playing Risk, but he'll agree that it's a fun game to share.

***


	4. Chapter 4

Oswald isn't bored, per se. It never gets boring hearing people call him boss and sir, having them come up to politely ask favours and get his permission. But he can't deny that some of the challenge has faded. After seven months, he's now running the largest gang in the medium security block and gaining members with every new busload of prisoners. Sometimes they worked for him on the outside -- and are happy to give him nicely detailed accounts of attacks on the Triad casinos and the eventual truce -- or belong to one of the gangs that now work for him. Sometimes, they're small-scale independents who remember the crime licenses or Penguin's imposed order in No Man's Land, who realise prison time is a lot easier when you're on the winning side.

Anyone who wants to work for him does, and Oswald mostly pays them in stamps and cigarettes, the common currency of the prison. (Becoming the main supplier of contraband was great for establishing his place in the prison pecking order, but he's starting to amass a profit in cigarettes and no way to convert that back into dollars. Using it to pay the new men -- who sometimes use it to buy items back from his sellers -- solves that problem nicely.)

Jackson Weaver is an independent thief and conman who arrived in Blackgate and asked to join Oswald's crew by the end of the first week. He's handsome like so many conmen, square-jawed with piercing blue eyes, brown hair parted to the side in a way that makes Oswald think of Ed back in that tiny green-lit apartment. Then Jackson smiles and the illusion is broken. His smile is shy, coy and far too practiced.

Oswald still smiles back. It's been a while since someone has actively flirted with him and it's flattering. Even if he knows to be suspicious of anyone who looks at Oswald, hears his reputation and tries to flirt.

Oswald can't help but be warmly amused that Jackson just happens to be in the library when Oswald goes to flick through yesterday's papers and exchange his book. Jackson smiles and glances down to show off thick lashes. "Mr Penguin."

Oswald frowns as if he's trying to remember the face. "Montana?"

Jackson gives a soft, throaty chuckle. "Close. Jackson Weaver. But I suppose an important man like you couldn't know every man that works for him."

Oswald's relationship with Barbara has always been tumultuous, but he wishes she were here now. She would appreciate the art of this striking man, the graceful way he steps back and leans a hip against the bookshelves. And then she'd laugh herself sick at the ridiculousness of it.

Oswald smirks. "I'm sure we'll get to know each other over time."

"I hope so, Mr Penguin."

***

Ed doesn't see the inherent hilarity in the situation. His handwriting is at turns blocky capitals and looped copperplate letters, as quirky and changeable as the man himself. " _You're wasting your time indulging a con artist that you know is trying to take advantage. You need to focus on something more important than that._ "

The rest of the letter is a detailed description of Ed's latest escape idea. This would be his fifth attempt. In theory, it sounds possible: stealing one of the guards' keys and making a duplicate, using that duplicate to unlock the security fire doors and climb down the fire escape. In reality, Oswald doesn't trust the sturdiness of those fire escapes.

Oswald writes back to ask how Ed's going to get off Arkham Island. Like Blackgate, like many prisons, it's on its own island with limited ways in and out. The first thing Arkham does after discovering an escape is place barriers across the two roads leading off the island. Last time, Edward used a reinforced truck to smash through them.

There is, unfortunately, a week of silence following Oswald's letter. They've developed informal rules around their letter-writing and one of those is to wait for a reply before sending another letter. Twice, Oswald sits down to start writing a letter only to remember that Ed hasn't replied yet.

It's hardly the first time Ed's sulked for a few days after receiving Oswald's constructive criticism. He's most likely seething over some supposed slight to his intelligence, and will eventually be bored enough to send some condescending essay to prove that he's right.

Most likely, but a tiny part of Oswald hopes that he's wrong. He keeps watching the evening news and hoping he'll hear reports of a daring escape from Arkham.

After two weeks, he starts to worry, just a little. After three weeks, he finds himself snapping at the morons around him. At Tony's next visit he sits, impatiently scraping his chair across the floor, and says, "Find out what's going on at Arkham."

Tony blinks. Oswald can almost see that tiny hamster he calls a brain trying to run on its little wheel. "What d'you mean?"

"Find out what happened to the Riddler. There should have been an escape attempt. If I'm paying people, I should know what's going on!" Tony shoots a worried glance at the door, and Oswald forces himself to sit back down and take a breath. "Okay, fine, give me an update on the Triad."

***

Jackson has the bad timing to approach Oswald in the library the next day. Oswald's there to have some time away from his cronies, to have space to process Tony's last text message: " _escape failed. R caught and sedated_ "

Oswald's torn between what he wants to do (get Ed out of there, find a way to see him and make sure he's okay) and his instincts (wait and evaluate the fallout, trust that Ed is more than capable of navigating Arkham's systems). Ed's previous escape attempts failed without being detected. Oswald doesn't know how the administration will respond, if they'll decide to keep him sedated and shackled to a bed or if they only require a show of good faith, a few weeks of good behaviour before Ed can go back to palming his medications and distributing it to the other inmates. (When Oswald questioned the point of that, Ed's reply had been " _Why not? How else am I going to find out what these tablets do?_ ") The smart money says to wait and see how it plays out.

Oswald is not in the mood for Jackson's well-practiced smiles and heavy-handed flirting. He doesn't want Jackson calling him Mr Penguin and standing too close. Especially not now. He doesn't want to think of Ed wide-eyed and eager, standing in the middle of GCPD, nervously spouting off riddles and ornithology facts. Or the way his entire face had lit up when Oswald collected him from outside Arkham's gates.

When Jackson reaches out to run a lingering finger over the number sewn into Oswald's shirt, Oswald grabs his hand and twists his arm hard. Feeling the bones grind in his grip, knowing that a quick snap could break one of them, he says, "Mr Weaver. Do not presume to touch me."

Jackson keeps his smile in place. He tilts his head down, all breathless submission. "Sorry, sir."

Oswald releases him but Jackson doesn't step away. "What are you doing?"

"What do you want me to do?" If Oswald was taller, Jackson would be looking up through his lashes. He's clearly trying to twist this situation to his advantage. "What am I allowed to do, sir?"

Oswald gives him an unimpressed glare. Yes, sir; no, sir; three bags full, sir. He made his start in this business playing that game. He's not stupid enough to fall for it now. He listened when Fish Mooney told him to be careful of the pretty ones, make sure you know what they want before you see them naked. "You're offering sex, in return for what?"

Jackson steps closer, running his tongue over his lower lip. He lifts a hand but doesn't reach out to touch Oswald. "A place on your crew. Protection."

"You already have both of those."

Jackson steps closer, leaning in until his mouth is level with Oswald's ear. He doesn't actually touch Oswald, which is the only reason Oswald doesn't turn and bite down on his jugular. His breath is warm and moist on Oswald's skin as he purrs, "And I'd like to keep them."

Oswald stays still, not moving an inch. He waits until Jackson sighs and stands up straight.

"I've seen the way you look at me," Jackson says, and his smile is still there but there's something uncertain hiding in his eyes. A growing fear that he's misread the situation.

"You are a very handsome man," Oswald allows because he has looked. He's let his gaze linger the way he might admire a penthouse suite or a sports car, something exquisite and expensive but ultimately not to his own tastes. "And you know how to use that. Those are both good attributes in a conman."

If Oswald wasn't looking so closely, he might have missed the flash of desperation, the split second of fear. It should be insulting that this seduction ploy is purely motivated by self-survival -- the fear of Oswald's motives for accepting him, the loss of protection if Jackson doesn't keep Oswald's favour -- but it's actually a relief. Oswald understands doing what's necessary to survive, no matter the cost to your dignity and pride.

"Let me make something very clear, Mr Weaver. A con artist is a master at drawing attention when it's needed. That makes you an asset and, for that reason, I want you working for me."

"You need a distraction? When?"

"I don't know yet. But at some point, I believe I will need one and, when I tell you, that is when I want to hear 'yes, sir' from you. Understood?"

"Yes," Jackson says, that false smile finally gone. "But sex--"

"Sleep with whomever you choose. Trade it in whatever way you choose. But that is not the service I am paying you for. I expect you to remember that, Mr Weaver."

"Yes," Jackson says with a smirk, "sir."

***

If Gotham's being uneventful, Oswald will only see Tony once a month. He sends phone messages to order each week's contraband and they keep the physical visits to a minimum. When Tony's back the next day, Oswald knows the news must be bad.

"What is it?" Oswald demands as he steps into the visitor's room and Tony glances at the guard's retreating back like he wishes the guard was staying.

"Maybe sit down, boss," Tony suggests hopefully.

Oswald tightens his grip on the back of the chair and leans over the table. "Tell me. Now!"

"Ten days ago, Riddler tried to escape."

Wincing, Oswald decides he does want to be sitting for this. "How far did he get?"

"Out the asylum walls. He got caught, well, tackled as he was running towards the cliff edge."

Oswald fights the urge to rub at his temples. He knew that was where it would go wrong: getting off the island. Ed previously claimed that with the right tides, he'd be able to swim Gotham River to freedom. Clearly, he decided to try to prove himself right. "What happened next?"

"Arkham wrote it up as a suicide attempt," Tony says quietly, like that will make any difference to Oswald's outraged squawk.

"That's ridiculous! He was trying to escape! Ed isn't suicidal."

"Yeah, but they put him on suicide watch anyway." In Arkham, suicide watch means padded walls and a straitjacket, protein shakes through a straw and the indignity of timed bathroom breaks. Oswald is going to kill someone. Slowly.

"Find out who the current warden of Arkham is, and pay them a visit." Oswald can feel the grin on his face. It's far from kind. "Find some dirt and get Ed out of suicide watch."

"Benjamin Oakley, and we looked, boss. No gambling debts, no hookers, no drugs. We got two of our cops to search his records, but there's nothing."

"Then you go to his house," Oswald says, trying to stay calm, "and you round up his wife and his children, hell, round up his dog, and then you shoot them one by one until he agrees to release Ed."

"What if he doesn't have a dog?"

"His cat! His goldfish! I don't care. The Riddler is not spending the rest of his days in a straitjacket!" Oswald slams a palm flat on the table and Tony jerks back. "Now, Tony."

"Can't, boss." For a big guy, Tony moves fast -- Oswald's fist slides past his shoulder instead of connecting with his jaw. He doesn't even look surprised by Oswald's attack. "We're waiting on a call."

"What call?"

"Just a little patience, boss."

"I am not known for my patience." Oswald glares at him but decides trying to punch him again is more effort than it's worth. It's not Tony's fault that Arkham is run by small-minded, power-hungry morons. "This had better be important. How long are we waiting?"

"Any minute--" Tony grabs for his phone when it rings and puts it on speaker. "Tony here."

"Wrong number!" yells a familiar and angry voice.

"Edward!" Oswald scrambles to pick up the phone from the table, to cradle the precious connection in his hands. "Where are you?"

"Where else, Oswald? Arkham. I'm in a straitjacket!" he growls, burning with a righteous fury that makes Oswald's heart pound. "A straitjacket!"

"Apart from that," Oswald says, grinning with relief, "are you okay?"

"I can't tell how many days it's been. They keep sedating me because I won't take the pills."

"Take the pills," Oswald says and Ed's offended gasp is audible. "For now. Be good for now."

"Be good? Spare the rod and spoil the child?" There's an edge to Ed's tone, angry and brittle, and even on a good day Oswald would skirt around those demons. Right now, when Oswald feels so far away and so useless, it's vital to keep Ed focused on the matter at hand.

"It's been ten days. Don't give them an excuse to keep you there longer."

"They don't need an excuse."

"I will fix this, old friend. I will get you out." He will. If he has to pay for a full frontal assault on the asylum, he'll do it.

"I'm capable of breaking out on my own," Ed objects loudly. "I don't need--"

Oswald talks over him. "Not in a straitjacket!"

"I could still find a way out!"

"You haven't yet!" Oswald yells back into the phone. "You want to rot in Arkham for the rest of your life? Fine! I'll leave you there. Enjoy the padded walls!"

"Enjoy the denim!" Ed yells back because he is petty and vindictive and somehow still Oswald's favourite person. 

Oswald stares at the phone in his hand, breathing deeply. He doesn't hang up and neither does Edward. After a full minute of silence, Oswald looks to the ceiling for patience, and then decides to be the bigger man. "How are you even making this call?"

"It's on speaker. Because I'm in a straitjacket," Ed says bitterly. "One of your guards made the call."

"My guards?"

"You have four on your payroll. Grant, Singh, Newman and Meyer?"

Oswald glances over at Tony for confirmation. Tony keeps his eyes on the table, trying to pretend he isn't even here, but he nods. "How did you know?"

"I've been in Arkham before," Ed says, but that doesn't explain anything.

"So?"

"None of the guards have roughed me up. If the other inmates get violent around me, the guards intervene."

"That doesn't mean it's me," Oswald says confidently. Ed gets touchy about things like this, times when Oswald oversteps friendship without thinking about it. When he allows his actions to be motivated by something that he knows will only ever be one-sided.

"No one else would pay for my protection," Ed says smugly, happy to win an argument.

Oswald wants to say he wasn't being controlling or interfering, except he was. There is part of him that likes knowing where Ed is and knowing there's someone watching out for him in Oswald's stead. He certainly can't admit that. "If anyone could escape from Arkham using only their wits, it would be you."

"But?"

"But I've been there, my friend. I know what it's like. I have no wish for you to… suffer unnecessarily." It may not be the entire truth but it's true enough. 

"Oswald," Ed says, tone uncomfortable and quiet. Almost lost. Oswald waits, but Ed only takes a ragged breath.

"Perhaps a compromise?" Oswald suggests.

"A compromise?"

"I promise I won't help you escape, but you allow me to bribe and threaten the warden into getting you out of that straitjacket."

"And you send me another sweater," Ed adds, as if he's allowing Oswald a great favour.

It's a tacit acceptance of Oswald's terms. He'll take it. "What happened to the last one?"

"It got burned setting off the fire alarms."

***

Lying on his comfortable mattress after lights-out, Oswald wonders if he made the right decision with Jackson. Jackson is handsome and willing, for a price. Perhaps Oswald wouldn't be lying in bed, restless and worrying about Ed, if he'd simply accepted Jackson's overtures.

It makes Oswald think of the Iceberg Lounge, that cold burn of satisfaction from sitting at his bar and looking up at Ed, frozen in perpetual surprise and disappointment. Knowing that he'd bested Ed when it counted, that he'd undeniably won.

It had been so easy to sit at the bar and allow handsome men to flirt with him. The infamous Penguin, an irresistible challenge to a certain type of pretty young thing. Sophisticated enough to impress them, a reputation for danger and power. So easy to wave the bartender for another drink, to keep them talking at the bar, to lean close and suggest a tour of his office upstairs. To kiss them in front of the picture frame window in his office, looking down at the packed club below.

Sometimes, they'd make use of his desk or his chair (only once in his chair; getting that cleaned afterwards was a nightmare). Sometimes, they'd flirt until the club closed and Oswald would lead them downstairs after the staff had gone.

He has a lot of memories of that club. A sprightly blond sitting on the bar, thighs wide apart, begging prettily as Oswald tugged at his belt. A tanned Greek god pulling Oswald into the corner booth, groping and tugging until Oswald straddled his lap and hauled him into a kiss. Pushing a white business shirt up to reveal pale skin and slim hips, dragging blunt fingernails down in red lines. Mouths and hands and forgettable faces, and the thought that always got him off was Ed. Ed, trapped up on the dais. Unable to do anything about it, if he was even aware of what was happening right in front of him. That Oswald had Ed, that no one else could, and that Oswald could have this too if he wanted. He could have it all.

Except afterwards, it didn't feel like having it all. It felt like a sad imitation of what he wanted. An unsatisfactory substitute, and that's all Jackson would be.

The sex with attractive strangers, the flattery to his ego -- it's all empty. Nothing holds a candle to the way Ed can understand him, to the way Ed can make his blood rush until he's dizzy with it. Ed has always been able to hold Oswald's happiness hostage. He's never understood how much Oswald would sacrifice for him and he's inevitably confused when Oswald does.

It's an exquisite kind of pain, the type that only comes from loving with his entire heart. Given the choice, Oswald doesn't know if he'd choose any differently. Not loving Ed might let him sleep easier but Oswald doubts it would make him any happier.

***

It takes a week before Oswald gets confirmation that Ed's been moved back to his cell. During that week, he organises one deep green cashmere sweater to be delivered to Arkham -- courtesy of a small-time enforcer with no direct ties to Oswald, who claims to be a distant relation of Ed's -- so there will be something comforting upon Ed's return.

Tony sends the occasional text message to keep him up to date, and Oswald demands another phone call be arranged.

Tony's reply is: " _sure, boss? it's not a cheap call_ "

Oswald sneers down at the phone in his hand. Furiously, he types back: " _It's my money. Do it._ "

By the time the next visit comes, Oswald's feeling generous enough to not even berate Tony for overstepping and questioning him. "Is there any business news I need to know?"

Tony shrugs. "Nothing big, boss. Club's doing well. Making a lot with the new doorman."

By doorman, he means the protection racket, the money most people pay happily to keep their business safe. And the ones that don't, well… They either close up and start a new business somewhere else, or they learn to pay.

Tony fills in the next five minutes with small talk. Victor Zsasz is back in town and has reached out with his current rates, a clear sign he's willing to let bygones be bygones. Oswald doesn't forgive people shooting at him, and he makes it very clear to Tony that Victor's services are only to be used with his express prior permission.

"Sure, boss," Tony says, sliding his phone across the table. "Not like anyone's keen to do business with that freak anyway."

Oswald lets the 'freak' comment slide. He's too busy answering the phone to care about name-calling. This time, he doesn't answer it on speaker. "Ed?"

"How badly did your goons terrify the warden?" Ed asks, not sounding quite as thankful as Oswald had hoped.

"It worked, didn't it? You're back in your cell?"

"Good old Ward D. Home, freezing home."

"What?"

"They sealed off the air vent!" Ed yells, sudden and too loud in Oswald's ear.

Wincing, Oswald holds the phone away from his head a little. "So you can't climb through the air vents? No more phone calls, no more letters?"

"No more heating," Ed growls. "They literally screwed a piece of plywood to the ceiling to block the vent. It's lazy. And it's rude!"

"They can't do that. It's almost winter. You'll freeze." Oswald glances over at Tony, who's trying to eavesdrop without looking too curious. "I'll get Tony to visit the warden again."

"If you do that, he'll find some other way to take it out on me. He didn't like having his authority undermined the first time."

"But--"

"Don't," Ed bites back. "Don't, Oswald. You'll make it worse."

Oswald sighs. He's never liked being told not to do something. If the warden is going to be uncooperative… "We could replace the warden. He could have an unfortunate accident."

Ed's shocked gasp seems like an overreaction. "If it gets traced back to you, Oswald…"

"It won't. I'm not an amateur."

Ed's quiet for a while. Eventually he says, "Thank you for the sweater."

"I'm glad you got it."

"Did you know cashmere is three times warmer than sheep wool?" Ed asks brightly. "And that increased goat farming in Mongolia has led to the Gobi desert expanding by a quarter of a mile per year?"

"No," Oswald says gently, "I can safely say I did not know that."

Ed hums, thinking. "There's no way to be sure who would replace the warden. It could be one of Strange's flunkies."

There's a cold shot of terror down Oswald's spine at that thought. "Okay, we need a different approach."

"Not intimidation, not murder." Ed snorts. "There go your favourite options."

Oswald rolls his eyes to the ceiling. Sometimes, he doesn't know why he even bothers. (He knows. Of course he knows why.) "If I get pen and paper to you, will you write?"

"Yes."

***

After considering it for three days, Oswald begrudgingly has his lawyer reach out to Lee Thompkins. He doesn't want to involve her, but she is one of the few people who still carries some goodwill towards Ed and has enough social clout to apply a little pressure. Oswald's unwilling to commit details to paper -- any letter is bound to find its way into her husband's hands and straight to the GCPD -- and she's not happy to return to Blackgate.

"We had an agreement," she says, skipping all pleasantries. Her dark eyes are furious. "I administer the scholarship but I don't visit you. You and I have no relationship."

"Thank you for coming," Oswald says, smiling as charmingly as he can. He ignores the handcuffs chained around his wrists, a precaution she'd insisted on before walking into the room. It's an obvious ploy to put Oswald at a disadvantage. It won't work, but Oswald can respect the strategy. "You're not here on my behalf."

"I'm certainly not here on mine."

"A common acquaintance." Oswald pauses, but her expression doesn't change. "We have a mutual friend that I believe you are in a position to help."

"Barbara Kean doesn't need my help."

"I'd hardly call Ms Kean a friend. She's spent a little too long wanting to shoot me."

"You have friends who haven't tried to shoot you?" Lee blinks, wide-eyed sarcasm at its best.

For a moment, Oswald thinks of Ed. Selina. Tabitha. Butch. Barbara. Even Jim Gordon. He shrugs. "I know a lot of temperamental people who like firearms."

"Who don't always like you," Lee adds, getting the pettiness out of her system. "But if it's not Barbara… Ed?"

"Yes."

"And you think I'd help? He stabbed me."

"And I saved you. How did you think it was going to end? You were just going to lead him on until you'd rescued the Narrows, until you got what you wanted and then--" Oswald clamps his mouth shut and forces a slow breath through gritted teeth. His chained hands are clenched into fists. Lee Thompkins watches him, too close for comfort. Words from long ago come back to him. "We are what we are, Mrs Gordon. We can hide from it or admit it, but it doesn't change who we are. Who Ed is. And you knew that when you got involved with him. Regardless of how messy that breakup--"

"Stabbing."

"--was, you were fond of Ed once. He is in a position where he needs an advocate, and I'm not currently able to help."

"So you're asking for a favour?" she asks, and Oswald tilts his head in agreement. "What if I say no?"

"Then I will be forced to write to Lucius Fox and ask him." Oswald is sure the distaste is clear on his face but he's prepared to do it. He learned long ago that getting what you want is worth far more than pride. "He's a good man who has shown Ed respect and empathy, so he'd probably help. But you're a doctor and I think you'd be more effective."

There's an uneasy silence as Lee stares at the table top, the handcuffs chained around Oswald's wrists. "Why?" 

"Because Arkham is cold with heating. Without heating, it's inhumane. You can't believe someone needs treatment and then let them be tortured."

Lee shakes her head, her dark curls brushing her shoulders. "No. Why are you helping Ed?"

The answer is so obvious that Oswald doesn't have the words for it. He's loved very few people in his life and so far all of them have died in his arms, with the exception of Ed. He couldn't turn his back on Ed if he tried. "He's a dear friend."

Lee watches him with an understanding bordering on pity. It's a sympathy Oswald's never asked for. So softly no one could overhear, she says, "At some point, you have to let your heart break and move past it."

"Really?" Oswald asks, voice hard and cold. "Did that work for you and your husband?"

At least she has the grace to look away. Imagine lecturing him on a lost cause, after everything she and Jim put each other through. He and Ed have never tried to blow up Gotham to get revenge on each other. If the Gordons get their happy ending, why does Oswald have to give up all hope of his?

"I was only trying to--"

"I don't care." Oswald glares at her. They are not friends; they've never been friends. She has no right to comment on his personal life. "Will you help Ed?"

"Yes," she says and then smirks. "But I'm taking Lucius Fox with me."

***

Of course the first letter he receives from Ed goes into rapturous details of Lucius Fox informing the administration that the heating system was inadequate for a building that size. Apparently, there had been enough facts and figures thrown around to thoroughly impress Ed. And then 'Foxy' had called someone at the Wayne Foundation and secured a large donation. Enough to cover the costs of a new heating system, leaving the asylum with no choice but to agree to the upgrade. Ed's letter is full of nothing but starry-eyed praise for the man.

It leaves Oswald grinding his teeth in irritation. Still, it's a small price to pay for getting regular letters from Ed again.

***


	5. Chapter 5

Oswald's been expecting the attack from Sokolov for the last week. Since Sokolov joined Blackgate three months ago, there's been talk of the Russians trying to recover their hold over the prison's blackmarket. It's why Oswald's increased the number of men who shadow him to the library and around the yard. He's far from surprised when Sokolov and two of his men step out of the shower cubicles. 

On the good side, it does mark the first occasion Oswald's used his shank. While it lacks grace and design, slashing the blade along Sokolov's meaty neck is effective. Messy, but effective.

Oswald ends up splattered in blood, holding a blade to one of Sokolov's men while the other glares at them from the floor. Oswald's grin feels as sharp as the weapon in his hand. "Tell your comrades that the Penguin has control of Blackgate. They can work for me or they can keep to themselves. Try this again, and I'll come for each and every one of you."

After they scamper away, Oswald eyes his reflection. He wipes at the blood on his cheek and watches it smear. He's been so comfortable in Blackgate, he almost forgot the rush of this: pulse pounding in his ears, fear and excitement at the back of his throat. That desperate, feral desire to live.

"Someone go to my cell. Get me a change of uniform," he orders, looking down at the spray of blood across his prison shirt. He'd burn it, but that would cause too many questions. He'll get the laundry to soak these in bleach until they're ruined, and then they can be thrown out.

That only leaves the body. It's a pity to sacrifice his shank, but it sets the scene. They lean Sokolov in the last stall, his slack hand next to the dropped shank, close enough to a suicide for the administration to accept it.

After a shower -- while his men guard the bathroom door -- and a clean uniform, Oswald returns to his cell looking the same as always. Certainly not looking like he'd just slit a man's throat and watched the light dim from his eyes. It's easy to keep up the pretence while he thinks about what to do next. It's unlikely the Russians will retaliate but not impossible. They might make another attempt on his life -- after all, he's just proved that he personally is the biggest danger to them. It would be best if he was somewhere they couldn't get to him. Ad Seg is a possibility, but Oswald doesn't like the vulnerability of being in solitary. After all, he knows exactly how cheaply the guards here can be bought.

He decides to wait until Sokolov's body is found and then talk to the prison counsellor. 

***

Oswald never anticipated being back in the Arkham stripes, but it is the easiest way to keep himself out of the Russians' reach for a few days. Give them some time to consider their options while Oswald attends a few mandatory psychiatric appointments. Tony's already reached out to the head psychologist -- they know there will be consequences if Oswald is kept here against his will.

After the transfer paperwork is checked, he's walked to the common area. As the guard carefully unlocks the barred doors, Oswald takes a good look around. There are vacant stares and twitchy hands, badly-fitted uniforms and unkempt clothes. The whole thing makes Oswald wary; he hates being surrounded by the unpredictable.

The door clangs shut behind him. Alarmed gazes turn to Oswald but he ignores them, striding past the table covered in paints and crayons. No matter how uncomfortable, this is still safer than waiting for the Russians to respond. He makes his way to the window at the far corner of the room, a thankfully empty spot. Outside, the sunshine casts dark shadows from the ornate front gates, the word 'asylum' stretching along the gravel.

"This is my window."

Oswald would know that possessive growl anywhere. Grinning, he turns around. "Edward!"

"Oswald?" Edward frowns, his glasses threatening to fall off his nose. His hair is long and messy, past his shoulders, swaying as he rushes closer. He stops an arms length away and then reaches out, his hand hovering above Oswald's shoulder. 

Oswald blinks but doesn't say anything.

Ed takes a breath and then carefully pats Oswald's shoulder. His confusion melts into a grin. "Oswald, what are you doing here?"

Oswald glances away, shrugging. "Psychiatric assessment. Temporary, I assure you."

"Why now?" Ed wonders aloud, and then nods to himself. "Sokolov made a move. You're hiding from retribution."

"How did you--" Oswald stops himself. He gives a shake of his head, waving away that thought. "It's been too long since we've spoken, my friend. I've forgotten what it's like to be understood without explaining every detail."

"You should tell me the details," Ed says gleefully. His smile dims. "Later."

Oswald glances at the guard. Given that Oswald pays him monthly, he shouldn't be a threat, but Ed clearly has a reason for changing the topic. "Later?"

Ed points to a nondescript brunette painting blue all over her page, then to a balding, heavyset man rocking back and forth by the bars. "Linda and Ross. They don't like violence. Well, they don't like hearing about it. Sets them off. Ironically, guess how they express their displeasure?"

Ed gives him an exhaustive rundown of all the inmates. Known triggers, background where he knows it, easiest way to manage them. Oswald nods along but he doubts he'll remember all of it. "Which one's Jefferson?"

Ed points to a table where a grown man with a very intent expression is cutting triangles out of orange paper with safety scissors. "Why?"

"Cellmate." It's yet another reason to be thankful for Blackgate. His cell might be small but at least it's his. "Pity they don't have private rooms."

Ed flicks his head, messy hair moving with the sharp movement. "Apart from me."

"Really?"

"They stopped trying to make me share." Ed's grin is sharp and dangerous. "All of my cellmates begged to move."

Oswald takes another look around the asylum, trying to see it through Ed's eyes. A collection of puzzles, each turning and reacting in their own specific way. Each of them a dangerous tool if wound up right and aimed. No wonder Ed hasn't been too motivated to escape.

Ed talks him through the daily routine, the small changes since Oswald's last stay here. Medication and breakfast in the cells, the choice to join group activities for the morning, lunch, more medications, an afternoon spent in the common area or your cell, dinner, more medications and locked into shared cells for the night. 

"There will also be psychiatrist visits, but that's a bit more ad hoc. Most of the inmates are considered lost causes, but every so often they hire a new doctor and we'll all have appointments for the first two months. They burn out quickly here."

"I assume bathroom breaks still have to be escorted?" Oswald never expected to miss having a metal toilet in the corner of his room, but he'd forgotten the disempowering indignity of having to knock on a cell door and ask to be taken to the bathroom. "And showers?"

"Twice a week if you're lucky." Ed shrugs, his grin growing wild. "Or if you have guards paid to look out for you."

"They know the Riddler is an ally," Oswald says because it's not as if he's ever given any instructions on Ed's personal hygiene. Although at some point, he's going to commandeer a hairbrush and force Ed to brush the knots out of his hair.

"You should talk to one of your guards. Get them to move you to my cell." Ed leans closer, lowering his voice. "Then you could tell me about Sokolov."

At the other end of the room, somebody shrieks for 'Mama' and someone else cackles. Oswald's fingers itch for a knife. "And we could talk with a little privacy."

***

It feels like old times. Sprawled across his metal-framed bed, bad leg propped up on a pillow, and talking Ed through the details of Sokolov's gang, his old smuggling operations, the specifics of how Oswald cut his throat… Oswald could close his eyes and see the neon green of Ed's old apartment. He remembers lying in Ed's double bed, telling him about Falcone and Maroni and every devious plan Oswald put into motion. Ed had memorised his file in the GCPD, the suspected crimes and missing pieces of his rise to infamy, and had an endless supply of questions -- why was he presumed dead? How did he meet Falcone? When did he start working for Maroni? How many people had he killed?

"I don't keep count," Oswald remembers saying. He remembers thinking that there was something so earnest about Ed, an absolute amatuer, but it was hard not to be charmed by someone so impressed by Oswald's achievements.

"Tell me who you remember killing," Ed had said, and Oswald had told him. Kill by kill, everyone who had died from a weapon in Oswald's hands. And then he'd asked if he should include the people he'd set up to die, and Ed had started a second tally.

It's something of a habit, Oswald supposes. He confessed crimes to Ed while they waited hours for the dental surgeon. Over candlelight dinners in No Man's Land, he told Ed about Jerome, about flying a blimp over Gotham River, about everything he'd done to secure Town Hall against chaos. Knowing Ed's memory, he probably knows the exact number of deaths that should be on Oswald's conscience.

"You know," Oswald says, looking across at Ed in the striped Arkham uniform, sitting with his knees crossed on his own bed, "you are the only person who knows every crime I've committed."

Ed snorts. "No, I don't."

"I've never confessed to anyone else. Not everything."

Ed shakes his head and Oswald makes another promise to himself to force Ed to brush his hair before he leaves. "I was on ice for five months. I have no idea what crimes you committed then."

"Oh, not much." Oswald thinks again about those months, sitting at his desk and being able to see the outline of ice from his window. Honestly, with the crime licenses in place, those months hadn't been particularly hands-on. "Well, there were a few but not anyone who was terribly missed."

"Who?" Ed says, leaning his elbows on his knees and resting his chin on his palms. "How?"

"Mr Penn had the names," Oswald says, "but the first were three burglars, gunshot to the head. One by me, two on my orders." He goes through the rest of them, everyone he can remember and how they died. He can usually remember that based on whether he had to replace shoes or gloves or silk ties, or gunshots when he didn't get his hands dirty. At the end of it, he asks, "Could you tell me how many people I've killed?"

"I could," Ed says, grin wide and eyes dangerously sharp, "but I don't think you want to know."

"You might be right," Oswald agrees happily. He trusts Ed to keep the tally for him.

***

With the exception of a few mandated counselling sessions, Oswald comfortably spends his days in Ed's room. He lies around in the improved heating reading the books Tony brought in for him. (Ed warned they might be confiscated depending on the guard, but that's simply another reason to stay in the locked safety of Ed's cell.)

Oswald's enjoying the room service, getting food delivered on a tray when he doesn't want to join the group activities. Vegetables that actually have a taste and can be identified beyond some type of green mush. Sure, he has to wait for a guard to escort him to the bathroom, but he's also been able to have a hot bath for the first time in years.

Ed, unfortunately, doesn't seem as relaxed with Oswald's makeshift vacation. He's spent the morning sitting on his own bed, reading one of Oswald's books at frightening speed, but he's getting twitchy. Glancing away from his book to look up at Oswald, looking away whenever Oswald looks up. He keeps shifting on the bed, long fingers tapping on his knee or drifting across the numbers sewn into his shirt. From the tense line of Ed's shoulders, there's only so much longer Ed can last before an outburst.

Oswald marks his page and closes his book. "I never asked. What are the numbers for?" Beneath Ed's inmate number, D-171, there's a 2, 3 and 4 sewn in a painfully straight line below.

"Counting New Year's." Ed looks up and meets Oswald's gaze, but his closed-mouth smile is nervous and he drops his gaze to the floor quickly. "Keeping a tally of days is impractical but I wanted to know how long I've been here."

"It can't have been that long," Oswald says but, when he thinks about it, Ed's right. Martin would be fourteen now. Oswald wonders if he'd recognise the boy. His lawyer gets reports from Martin's school, but he hasn't seen any photos. It would be too dangerous to have any direct correspondence between them. It's a practical consideration given the risks, but it still chafes.

"What is it?" Ed asks, and Oswald looks over. "You looked… sad."

Oswald almost laughs at how uncomfortable Ed looks at the word. Baby steps, he tells himself. "I miss Martin. I miss being able to visit him. You know what they say, they grow up so fast."

"Ah!" Ed bounds to his feet, climbing up on the frame of his bed to slide fingers into the edge of the air vent.

"What are you doing?" Oswald asks, sitting up. "Don't fall."

Ed leans precariously backwards, and then pulls out a stack of postcards. He jumps off the bed, holding his little bundle out with pride. "Postcards."

"Yes, I can see that."

"From Martin."

"What? Why is he sending you postcards?" Oswald can hear the outraged offense in his tone; from Ed's pitying look, it sounds a lot like jealousy. Oswald snatches the postcards from his hand.

"He doesn't sign them with his name. He gives them to the other children to post when they're home for the holidays. The guards you bribed let me keep them, but you never know when there's going to be a new guard with an overeager approach to clearing out a cell."

Ed's right. They're signed "Chester" with no return address. They're addressed to Uncle Ed -- and Oswald doesn't know if he's charmed or annoyed by that -- and all very benign. Mostly it's talk of what he's learning at school and test results. Sometimes he mentions his dog. "He got a dog?"

Ed looms into Oswald's personal space, and pulls out a postcard from the pile. It's dogeared on the edges, clearly older, and says that he's enjoying school but he misses his dog so can Ed "give Oz a hug from me."

Oswald presses a hand over his mouth before he says something sentimental. He hoped Martin would remember him but, given the violence of Gotham, he would have understood if Martin wanted a fresh start at his new school. With no visits and no presents for years, no communication at all, it was most likely Martin had forgotten him.

And yet he's holding proof, the most recent one dated two months ago, that Martin still cares, still sends his love. Blinking watery eyes, Oswald manages, "Clever boy."

"It's a simple code," Ed says, missing the point entirely, "but none of the guards here would look twice at these. Give them back to me when you finish reading them."

***

Ed remains on edge most of the day. Enough that Oswald even suggests that he go to the common area without him.

"I didn't mean to upset your routine," Oswald offers, watching Ed carefully for his response. "I'm perfectly happy reading a book on my own."

Ed shakes his head, but the tight-lipped smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You're only here for, what? A few days? A week at most? And then you'll be back at Blackgate and I'll have endless time to spend out there."

Maybe that's what it is. Maybe Oswald being here is reminding Ed of better times, of not being trapped behind wire and locked doors. Perhaps the distraction is Ed thinking through a new plan. "My offer still stands. If there's anything I can do to help an escape plan, you only have to tell me."

"No." Ed glares and it's such a familiar annoyance that Oswald relaxes. "I told you before. I can work it out on my own."

Oswald shrugs and turns back to his book.

It's easy to lose track of time in Arkham. No scheduled counts breaking the day into smaller chunks. No clocks in sight. Oswald doesn't know if it's ten minutes or an hour later when Ed says quietly, "Oswald."

Oswald looks up. Ed looks serious enough that Oswald fumbles for a bookmark -- in this case, a single clean sock -- and closes the book. "Yes?"

"You'd break me out if I asked you to?"

Oswald shrugs. "Yes." 

"Because you owe me?"

"That's one of many reasons." It's as honest as Oswald can be, but it feels like he's edging around an unseen trap. He's rarely lied to Ed, but he has betrayed his trust in unforgettable ways, so he can see why Ed might have doubts. "You should remember the only reason I haven't is because you specifically told me you didn't want my help."

Ed waves that thought away, lurching to his feet. "Stand up, Oswald."

"Why?"

"I need to test something. I need to know. Scientifically, it's not enough to be certain of something, you have to be able to test it, to prove it. I know the answer but I need to be sure I'm right. Stand up."

Oswald gets to his feet, preparing himself for some kind of comeuppance, some kind of test that he won't betray Ed again. He thinks of Fish driving a knife through the back of his hand; Gordon shooting his bad leg. Blood between his fingers and Ed's hand on his chest, pushing him into the river. Whatever this is, Oswald can take it without flinching.

Ed takes one step towards him and then another.

"I just-- I need to be sure," he says, standing so close that Oswald has to look up to meet his eyes. Then he darts forward, mouth pressed to Oswald's. 

Oswald opens his mouth in surprise, and there's teeth and too much tongue, and Ed's nose pushing against his. It's not a kiss, it's an invasion. Sloppy and pushy, and Oswald is outraged. He has loved this man for years, and now he finds out he's a bad kisser? How can Edward Nygma -- a man who can find a carotid artery with a scalpel, who can build a submarine based on nothing but books -- be such a terrible kisser?

"What was that?" Oswald demands as Ed pulls back, wiping his mouth against the back of his hand. Oswald might be offended by that gesture if he wasn't doing the exact same thing. Sloppy. "What? Was that?"

"I told you. I needed to be sure." He starts stepping backwards, so Oswald grabs his uniform shirt in both hands and pulls Ed down until their faces are level.

"Edward Nygma, explain. Right now! What was that?"

Ed blinks. He doesn't pull away from Oswald; he's never flinched at Oswald's temper. "I needed to be sure."

"Of what?"

"Of us! Of you," Ed babbles nervously. "Of me. I had to be sure I was right."

Oswald blinks, thinking. Anyone sensible, anyone with an ounce of self-awareness would know if they wanted to kiss someone. But Ed wants to test it like rats in a lab, wants to be sure in case he's not right. Because he suspects... 

Slowly, Oswald relaxes his grip on Ed's clothes, allowing Ed to stand up straight again. This is too rare a chance to squander. Carefully he says, "You wanted to be sure you're not attracted to me."

For the first time today, Ed's grin is wide and toothy. "Exactly. No matter what the doctors here say, you can't argue with proof."

Like proof of a bad kiss, Oswald thinks cynically. Still, he knows an opportunity when he sees one. "Is a sample size of one really proof? Even if the results are expected, shouldn't an experiment be repeated to be proved?"

"I thought about that, but it seemed cruel to you." It's more consideration than Ed usually gives Oswald's feelings. "Five to ten would be a better sample size, even if the first results were conclusive."

"Five," Oswald says, before Ed can think too much about it. He raises his palms to Ed's cheeks, letting his thumbs brush across those pretty cheekbones. "You keep count."

Oswald guides Ed's face to his, watching Ed's expression waver between intrigued and concerned. The first kiss he presses to Ed's cheek, catching the corner of his mouth.

"One," Ed says, "although maybe it should be a kiss on the lips for comparison."

Oswald fans his fingers out across Ed's cheeks, pinkies resting under Ed's jaw. He can feel the tension, the tight muscles running down Ed's neck. Letting his eyes close, Oswald breathes agreement against Ed's mouth. "On the lips."

He moves slowly, lets his nose brush along Ed's before he presses his lips to Ed's. Keeps it soft and dry, and waits for Ed to relax before he pulls back. "One."

"I thought I was counting."

"Apologies." Oswald's never had the patience for safe-cracking, for delicate mechanisms that need careful handling, but Ed has always been a worthy exception. The second kiss is as careful as the first, a gentle press of lips until the tension leaves Ed's jaw.

"Two," Ed says, voice soft and wondering.

Oswald kisses Ed's lower lip, just enough suction to leave it damp. When Ed opens his mouth to count again, Oswald catches his lower lip with his teeth, a light scrape followed by a soothing press of tongue, and he feels the rush of air from Ed's gasp.

Ed's hands land on Oswald's arms, fingers digging into his biceps. Oswald eases back, still close enough to feel Ed's breath on his skin, and this time Ed's the one who leans forward, mouth chasing Oswald's. There's a hint of tongue but it's mostly soft lips and suction, a scrape of teeth as one kiss flows into another, then another. Ed's hands still gripping him tight, trying to drag Oswald closer, forgetting that Oswald has his elbows resting against Ed's chest.

Oswald pushes him back and breaks the kiss. He can't bring himself to stop cupping Ed's face, to stop his thumbs from brushing along Ed's cheeks. "Was that enough? To prove your theory?"

"No." There's a sharp hunger in Ed's eyes, a light that's been missing for so long. He really is the most beautiful thing Oswald's ever tried to steal. "Inconclusive."

"So…" Oswald lifts his brows, trying not to grin. "Another five?"

"Yes," Ed says, trying to pull Oswald into another kiss. 

Oswald leans back. "But maybe not standing up. I'm getting a crick in my neck."

"You're complaining? You're not the one bending down five inches."

Oswald rolls his eyes. His sympathy for Ed being six feet tall is non-existent. "Sit on the bed."

Ed pulls a face at him, annoyed and mocking, but the effect is undermined by that unruly mess of hair hanging to his shoulders. Oswald nearly says something and then decides, no, he can pick his battles. That one can wait. 

"Any other orders, Mr Penguin, sir?" Ed asks with so much sarcasm that it shouldn't be hot. 

It still is, a little. It must show on his face because Ed barks out a laugh as he sits down. Oswald's both angry and mortified as he stomps over to Ed's bed. Before Ed can say whatever joke is making him look so amused, Oswald carefully kneels his bad leg on the bed and leans in until their chests are touching. "You were saying?"

"I was going to make a joke about wanting to feel tall," Ed says distractedly, staring at Oswald's lips. 

Oswald lifts his other knee up, straddling Ed's thighs and settling his weight on Ed's legs. "But you thought better of it?"

Wrapping his arms around Ed's shoulders, Oswald curls forward to press an open-mouthed kiss to Ed's cheek. Ed hisses in a breath, sitting up ramrod straight, and Oswald wonders if he miscalculated -- if this is too much, too fast -- as Ed pulls away. 

"Another five?" Oswald asks carefully.

"To be certain." Ed removes his glasses, dropping them on the covers beside them. He gives an encouraging nod.

Oswald can feel his own grin. He doesn't even try to hide it. It's easier, this time, to close his eyes and find Ed's mouth, to slide a hand around the back of Ed's neck and tangle his fingers in the fine hair. To tilt their heads and deepen the kiss, to press his chest against the firm heat of Ed's. Ed's hands find his hips, cautious and careful, and Oswald bites at his lip in retaliation. "I'm not going to break, Ed."

Ed stares at him, brown eyes dark with intent. His fingers tighten on Oswald's hips and drag Oswald closer. "Better?"

Oswald hums his approval into the next kiss. He makes a few more encouraging sounds when Ed's hands slide back, palming his ass. He rocks against Ed, enough to make it very clear how much he's enjoying Ed's hands. He's watched those hands in meetings, fingers curled around pens or dancing across a laptop keyboard. He's seen how deftly they can wield a knife or a scalpel, and how carefully they cradle Ed's first mug of coffee each day. He's thought a lot about those hands.

Ed tips his head back, breathing harshly. It's the perfect opportunity to drag kisses along his jaw, to let teeth scrape over the bob of his Adam's apple. Ed gasps, fingers kneading Oswald's ass. When Oswald licks the sting away, Ed jerks beneath him, his cock hard against Oswald's thigh.

The uniforms at Arkham may be hideous in every other possible way, but Oswald does appreciate the easy access. He slides his hand under the elastic waistband and cups Ed through the cotton briefs.

"Oh," Ed says, breathless and stunned as Oswald presses the heel of his hand down the length of Ed's cock. "Oswald--"

Before he can say anything else, Oswald pushes the cotton out of his way and wraps fingers around him. He's hot in Oswald's hand, leaking at the tip. Oswald keeps his grip loose, a light tease that makes Ed gasp and groan when Oswald squeezes around the base. He's slow with it, searching for the spots that make Ed's breath catch. He's wanted this for too long to waste it on some desperate fumble.

He leans back, shifting his weight to Ed's knees. Ed's eyes are closed, lips parted, and Oswald can't resist rubbing his thumb across Ed's mouth. It's that or say the word that's building in his spine, digging claws into the hollow of his chest: _mine, mine, mine_. Instead, he licks a wet stripe along his own hand and reaches down, working Ed's cock with both hands.

"Oh," Ed breathes out, head tipped back and gorgeous. "Oh, dear."

Oswald laughs. It's such a perfectly Ed thing to say. To be flushed and dishevelled and say something so innocuous. A dark part of Oswald wonders if Lee Thompkins got to see this, wonders who else has felt Ed's fingers on their waist, has seen Ed slack-jawed and lost in pleasure. Again, Oswald thinks: _mine_.

Ed kisses him before he can say it. Messy and distracted kisses that keep being interrupted by gasps as Oswald slides his hands over Ed's cock. He chases those kisses, loving the way Ed starts moving beneath him, rocking his hips up to meet Oswald's hands.

Ed's breathless and tense when he says, "Oswald, Oswald, stop," and Oswald nearly keeps going. Almost wants this badly enough to take it any way he can. 

Almost.

Oswald stills his hand and loosens his grip. He can't make himself let go entirely. "Ed?"

"Need to stop," Ed says, still flushed and panting. "Uniforms."

"What?"

"Uniforms." Ed rubs two hands over his face, pushes his hair back. "Clean uniforms come back tomorrow. I don't want to spend a whole day in--" Ed breaks off, looking away.

Oswald works his jaw, thinking. Mostly thinking this is ridiculous. This is so easily solved, there must be more to it. "You don't want to spend the day in soiled clothing. That's easily fixed."

"Not if you kept doing what you were doing."

"Lie down," Oswald says, pushing Ed's shoulders back until he's lying on the bed. Oswald rises to his knees, pulling at the waistband of Ed's pants. "Clothes off."

Ed snorts but he helpfully lifts his hips, allowing Oswald to slide pants and briefs down those obscenely long legs of his. Oswald might get a little distracted running his hands up and over Ed's thighs, dragging fingernails along the lean muscle and sparse hair, and then he's pulling off his own uniform. He throws them towards his bed but misses.

He crouches over Ed, stealing a kiss as he tugs at the hem of Ed's shirt. He pulls it up a few inches and then Ed's hand is on his wrist, holding firm. "Maybe not."

"You'll get sweaty. Might as well keep the uniforms clean."

Ed closes his eyes. Beneath Oswald's hand, Ed's stomach moves with every breath.

"I can keep it on," Ed says, and then pulls Oswald's wrist towards him, letting Oswald's fingertips run over soft hair and warm skin and the raised bumps of old scars.

"They don't matter." Surely someone's told Ed that before. For once, Oswald thinks of Ed's past lovers and pities them, wonders if Ed kept them at a safe distance with everything unseemly hidden away. Oswald takes vicious pleasure from the thought. 

"A mark not tainted, no pain remains," Ed recites quickly, flashing a strained grin. "Memories painted, history it contains."

"Please. I am the last person to be squeamish about scars." Oswald lifts Ed's hand up to his own face, to the fine sunken mark trailing from his bad eye down his cheek. He moves Ed's hand to his left side, to the spidery network left from Ivy's concoctions and Ed's bullet. Finally, he drags Ed's splayed fingers up to his shoulder, to that neat line from Ed's stitches. There are other marks from stabbings and beatings that have drawn blood, but those are important ones. "They're things we've survived, nothing more."

Ed looks thoughtful as his fingers trace over that old scar. Perhaps he remembers creating it, saving Oswald's life with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for puppies and ice cream. Perhaps he remembers how it took Oswald days to be gracious enough to thank him, to ask where he'd taken Oswald for medical attention. How Oswald had been disbelieving and then amazed that Ed had done it himself, and Ed had bloomed under the praise.

"I'm asking out of sheer practicality," Oswald says, because the best lies are partially true. 

"Fine," Ed says, pulling the Arkham stripes off quickly and lying back down. Oswald doesn't let himself stare. He's seen worse -- and he's inflicted far worse -- and thinking too much about the faded age of those scars, the long straight lines and the round burn marks, are only going to leave him furious.

Instead Oswald lowers himself beside Ed and kisses him, lets his hands wander back down to the soft skin of Ed's inner thighs. He keeps the kisses lush and undemanding, waiting for Ed's self-consciousness to pass. It takes a few minutes for Ed to relax again, for Ed's arms to wrap loosely around Oswald's back. Ed shifts on the bed, spreading his legs to allow more. Slowly, Oswald's fingers roam higher, fingertips brushing along Ed's balls, cupping and caressing them until Ed gasps against his mouth and tries to pull Oswald closer.

"What do you want?" Oswald asks, hoping Ed's earlier nerves will keep his answer in the realm of the possible.

It's a vain hope. Ed says, "Everything."

"What do you want right now?"

"Kiss me. Make me feel good," Ed says, burying his head against Oswald's neck and licking along the tendon. There are warm lips against the curve of his ear, a warm shiver of breath as Ed says, "Make me yours."

Oswald has to pull him into a kiss. Has to push him into the cheap mattress and climb between his legs and kiss him until they're both breathless with it. He rocks against Ed, tangles a hand in his hair and keeps kissing him as the heat builds between them. It's sweaty and desperate. Oswald shifts his weight to one elbow and reaches down, wraps a hand around both their cocks. Loves the slide of smooth, hot skin and the sound of Ed's broken gasps. Ed's arms around him, fingers clinging for purchase as they slide against each other.

Next time, Oswald promises himself. Next time, he can be slow and careful. He'll take care of Ed, take him apart. But right now, it's holding Ed close and thrusting against his own fist, it's catching Ed's mouth as his groans get louder. Panting against Ed's skin when Ed pulls his mouth away, spine stretched and tensed as he comes. It's Oswald stroking himself hard and fast, blood pounding in his ears and that same word circling his heart.

"Mine."

***

Before Oswald got temporarily transferred to Arkham, he sent instructions to Tony for a care package. Tony brought it in during the first day -- books and a warm sweater (unnecessary now that Arkham's heating actually works), biscuits and a few monogrammed handkerchiefs. He's thankful for the handkerchiefs as they clean up and get dressed again.

"Next round of the guards will be in ten minutes."

Oswald looks over his shoulder at Ed, who's standing by the window, staring at the lavender handkerchief folded up in his hand. Oswald considers saying nothing, letting the actions of this afternoon fall between them as an unspoken secret. He's afraid Ed will break his heart again, but fear has never stopped him before. Sitting on his own bed, Oswald says, "We should talk."

"Because you called me yours?" There's a hint of a growl in Ed's tone, sharp edges hidden like a switchblade in a suit pocket. It's distractingly attractive.

"Yes," Oswald says, trying to ignore his own visceral reaction. "Despite my many virtues, I do not share well."

Ed laughs. He doesn't look up from the handkerchief in his hands. "I remember."

"We need a clear understanding." Through the window, there are more brick walls and a tiny sliver of grey sky. Oswald keeps staring at it as he talks. It's easier than watching Ed avoid eye contact. "I need to know what this means to you. Whatever it is, I promise I will respect it. I'll even try not to lose my temper."

"Why is it up to me?"

Oswald rolls his eyes, not that Ed deigns to look at him. "Because you know I love you. You're the mystery here."

"You _said_ you loved me, but that was a long time ago." Ed shrugs. "I haven't been useful to you in years."

Oswald pushes himself off his bed and strides the few steps to the far side of the cell. "Edward Nygma, even if you were the most useless imbecile in all of Gotham, I would still love you. That's as likely to change as my ability to kill you."

Ed tilts his head away from Oswald. He watches his bare feet on the linoleum floor. "What would being yours entail?"

It's such an oddly precise question. Oswald probably should have expected it from Ed. "The usual things that being in a relationship entails."

Ed raises both brows, blinking down at Oswald. The expression on his face is condescending and unimpressed, but at least he's looking at Oswald. "You're serving a prison sentence for six more years. I'm in a mental institution. I don't think there's anything usual about this."

"Fine," Oswald grumbles. "It's… hmmm." 

"Yes?"

"Let me think!" It's actually hard to put into words. He wants to know Ed is his, he wants the right to worry about Ed, to look after him; to know that when Ed needs something, it's Oswald he'll turn to. Oswald may not be patient but he is determined; he can wait six years if it means he gets to keep Ed.

"We can make this easy," Ed says, voice coldly understanding. "It can just be something said during sex. It doesn't have to mean anything, Oswald."

"You think when the Penguin claims something it means nothing?" Ed opens his mouth to say something logical and reasonable and completely wrong, so Oswald talks over him. "I want you to be mine like territory is mine. Mine to protect, mine to defend. Mine to keep."

Ed nods as if that makes sense to him. "And that prison sentence?"

"I may be in prison, but the club is mine and everyone knows it. Whether I'm there or not makes no difference."

Glancing down at his hands again, Ed walks over to the wall and then turns around. Oswald sits back down on his own bed, giving Ed room to pace if he needs to. "You know, I haven't tried to escape this year."

Oswald nods, not entirely surprised. Ed's letters haven't mentioned it. Ed could have been being discreet, protecting against the possibility of a guard reading them, but Oswald suspected it was something else. After all, Ed has no concerns about discussing the details of Blackgate's prison gangs or the contraband Oswald sells.

"If I escaped, what was I going to do?" Ed reaches the other wall of the cell and turns, spinning on one foot, hands wide in a frustrated gesture. "You'd still be in Blackgate."

"You could change your name, leave Gotham, become someone new." Oswald suspects Ed's done that before. Ed keeps tokens and keepsakes, collects scraps and memories, and his apartment had nothing from his childhood. He had faded chess club flyers from Gotham University, but nothing from high school. Oswald hasn't asked. He changed his own legal name long before he became the Penguin -- he understands the need to redefine yourself.

"I like who I am now," Ed says, reaching the wall and spinning around. Oswald looks away before Ed's pacing starts to make him feel claustrophobic. "I'm not running away. But what's the point of staying in Gotham?"

"You could taunt the GCPD until they caught you again."

Ed stops and looks at him. Head tilted sideways, Ed suddenly grins. "You can't be jealous of Foxy. It's not the same."

"I'm not jealous."

Ed doesn't call him out on the lie. Instead, he walks over and gracefully folds down to his knees in front of Oswald. He rests his hands on Oswald's thighs, and Oswald has to swallow back the urge to reach out and cradle his face. "Gotham is boring without you. If I can only send you letters, I might as well be in Arkham."

"One cannot deny love," Oswald says, smiling and pushing away the hair that's falling over Ed's left eye. Ed pulls back so quickly, Oswald glances at the door while his hand searches for a weapon. No one's there, but Ed still looks spooked. "What?"

"Yours," Ed says, "not love. That's not-- I don't-- I'm not in love with you."

This time, it's Oswald's turn to chuckle. "Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not!"

Before this can devolve any further, Oswald holds up a hand. "You withstood torture for me. You came back to Gotham for me."

"If I gave them information, they only would have killed me sooner," Ed says. "The submarine needed two people to operate it."

"For the radar and steering, I remember. You needed two people to avoid the mines and get across the river. But you could have stayed on the Gotham side. You could have submerged and waited out the attack." From Ed's embarrassed expression, he already knew that. "I know you, Ed. You don't care about Gotham like that. You came back for me."

"That doesn't make it love."

Oswald shrugs. It's a difference in terminology, not a lack of devotion. "It's close enough."

***

"When's the next round?" Oswald hasn't always appreciated Ed's innate sense of time and routines. Right now, stretched out naked on Ed's bed and hovering somewhere between napping and awake, he can see its value.

"Forty minutes," Ed says.

"Another twenty minutes," Oswald decides, settling into the pillow, and Ed shrugs in agreement. He has guards on the payroll. He could just pay them to skip the inspection rounds. But that runs the risk of a shift change or curiosity, and Oswald has no intention of confirming anyone's suspicions. (They're paid to look after Ed. They must have some suspicions about Oswald's motives.)

As keeps happening today, Oswald's thoughts return to Blackgate. Tony's visit yesterday reminded him that he can't stay in Arkham permanently if he wants to keep his empire outside. Not that Tony criticised him for it directly, but there are rumblings from the Irish mob that Oswald should be settling behind Blackgate bars. He should return.

Really, he should have gone back a week ago but it had been an easy thing to extend his stay, to stretch a few days in Ed's company to a week spent in bed. It's a honeymoon of sorts. After wanting Ed for so many years, it's an indulgence Oswald easily justified.

But he's reaching the point where indulgence becomes folly. Oswald sighs. It's not a conversation he wants to have. "Ed, I've been thinking."

"About Blackgate," Ed says, and Oswald lifts his head to stare at him. "You said Tony was having issues with the Irish, so I assume you need to go back to Blackgate to settle it."

Oswald had almost forgotten this. How well they work together, how quickly Ed understands. "It's a taxation dispute on their whiskey supplies. Not terribly important but they're making a stand because they think I'm incapacitated."

"How will you deal with it?" 

"Some maiming, possibly a stabbing," Oswald says, only half joking. The situation might require a certain amount of violence to be taken seriously, but he doesn't have a specific plan.

Ed nods, not particularly interested. For someone who eagerly asked Oswald to demonstrate slow and fast ways to kill with a knife, someone who was fascinated and wanted to test each technique, he has no interest in the day-to-day violence that supports a criminal empire. Once he acquired the knowledge, it bored him.

Ed's like that with, well, everything. While working on the submarine, he was fascinated by every detail of aquatic engineering, reading every book he could find and spouting off facts every time he saw Oswald. He brings the same endless curiousity to sex: happy to devote hours to running his hands over Oswald's skin, keeping mental notes on Oswald's reactions. Testing pressure and sensation from firm strokes of palm, the ghostly brush of fingertips or nails scraping sharp and bright. Oswald feels like he's been inspected and catalogued, but it's warmly flattering to have Ed's undivided attention.

Ed could grow bored of this, too. It's not the first time Oswald's had that sharp-edged thought. Ed adores the challenge of something new and unknown, but he's also a man of routines. Pens lined neatly in a drawer, green suits made to uniform measurements, sandwiches always cut in half along the diagonal. Even in Arkham, Ed's bed is always made neatly before breakfast and the stack of Martin's postcards are kept in chronological order to the left of the air vent. Oswald doesn't need to be endlessly fascinating; he needs to find a way to embed himself in Ed's routines.

Oswald turns his head and eyes Ed's profile, the kiss-swollen lips and the dark hickie on his shoulder. "It can wait a few more days."

"Two more days," Ed says, his smile slowly growing. "We'll make the most of it."

***

As a final indulgence, Oswald does convince Ed to have a bath with him. The bathroom tiles are a dingy off-white and the porcelain tub has nicks and scratches, but it's long enough for Ed's legs to stretch out straight and deep enough for the water to come up to Oswald's shoulders.

Oswald leans back against Ed's chest, feeling the heat sink under his skin. "You'll have to imagine candlelight and bath salts."

"And no guard listening at the door," Ed murmurs into his hair. Beneath the water, Ed's fingers start trailing along Oswald's thighs, a light touch designed to draw Oswald's attention.

"Don't distract me. I'm enjoying this."

"And you wouldn't enjoy this?" Ed murmurs, hands drifting to graze over Oswald's hips and then back down.

Oswald bites his lip, tempted despite himself. "I have an ulterior motive in play, and it isn't sex."

Ed's hands stop moving. "What ulterior motive?"

"Guess." Oswald nods at the collection of items the bribed guard had waiting for them. A leave-in conditioner, a handheld mirror and a brush. He even borrowed a pair of scissors from a guard; unfortunately, he'll have to return those when they leave.

"Your hair looks fine, Oswald."

If he wasn't so warm and comfortable, he might be offended by Ed's long-suffering tone. Taking pride in your personal appearance isn't a sin. Peevishly Oswald says, "Pity I can't say the same."

Ed tenses against him. "Does it matter? I'm wearing stripes. No one cares about my hair."

"I do. I've never known you to like your hair so long." Even in No Man's Land it hadn't been this long. Oswald remembers how genuinely grateful Ed was when Oswald offered his barber's services.

"You want me to trust someone in here to stand behind me with a sharp object? Who would you suggest?"

"Me. Or do it yourself and I'll hold the mirror." It would be nice to run his hands through Ed's hair without getting tangled in knots. "Let me fix this before I leave."

"Hmmm."

Oswald sinks a little lower into the bath, letting his legs push Ed's knees wide as the water laps at his chin. There's nothing like a bath to relax stiff muscles. He can feel his back, his hips, that ever-present ache in his bad leg settle down to a dull tingle.

"If I were a better person, I'd get out and let you lie down," Oswald says with no intention of moving. When he tilts his head back, he sees Ed looking down at him, brown eyes amused.

"I'm not such a fan of baths. I'd rather...this."

Reaching down, Oswald settles his hands on Ed's forearms, arms over Ed's. It's a lazy embrace but he's too comfortable to put more effort into it. His eyes have drifted closed when Ed says, "I know it's logical."

"Hmm?"

"I know there are sound reasons why you have to return to Blackgate." Ed pauses, and Oswald waits. "But I wish… I mean, I want…"

Oswald keeps his eyes closed, feels Ed's chest move under his head with each frustrated breath. "You want me to stay? Here?"

Ed huffs out a breath. "I know you can't."

"Of course I could. I'm the Penguin. Ask, Ed, and I'll stay."

"You'd lose your club. You'd lose your territory. Between the Irish and the Triad and the other families, you wouldn't have anything left."

"I'd have you."

Ed snorts. "I'm sure you'd be content with that trade," he says bitterly.

Oswald considers sitting up and turning around to face Ed. Having this conversation with Ed's chin really doesn't help him gauge his words. But Ed's hands are on his ribs, holding him tight, like Ed needs the reassurance of contact while they talk about this.

"I could reclaim my territory. I've done it before. It's not easy, but I could do it again."

"You're halfway through your sentence. That's years wasted."

"I've wanted you for longer." Oswald thinks about what he'd do if Ed asked, what his next steps would be. "I'd stay, but I'm not living in an asylum for the rest of my life. We escape, as soon as it can be arranged. If we're quick about it, we might be able to defend the club before it's taken over."

"I thought you wanted to be a respected citizen. Or at least appear to be one."

"My reputation is not worth more to me than you. I'll make it work. Or we'll leave Gotham," Oswald offers as a last resort.

"Oswald," Ed says, softly awed. A light finger traces the scar on Oswald's cheek.

Oswald closes his eyes, enjoying the feathery touch. "I get transferred tomorrow, so you have time to think about it. I'll stay if you ask."

***

Oswald stares up at the dark ceiling, listening to Ed breathing in the other bed. These beds aren't generous and it's nice to have space to comfortably stretch while he sleeps, but he'd prefer to be curled around Ed's warm back. If not for the nightly checks, he would be.

The sound of inconsolable sobbing and loud hitching breaths echoes down Arkham's corridors. Someone shouts and someone else giggles. There's a low, ceaseless muttering. In Arkham, a quiet night is any night that isn't interrupted with screams and thumping boots and the scuffle to administer a forced sedative. Oswald sighs. He's looking forward to getting back to the fearful hush of Blackgate.

Or escaping soon if Ed asks him to stay. He'll know by the end of the day and make his plans accordingly.

He'll need to contact Tony. Ed might have some more subtle ideas, but Oswald's inclined to get armed men here _en masse_ , use some explosives on the outer wall of Ed's cell and climb out the hole to freedom. It's not a sophisticated plan, but the element of surprise and lots of weapons usually works for Oswald. With luck, the staff will be too scared to call the GCPD until he and Ed are off the property.

The trouble will be where they go from there. Not anywhere Jim Gordon or Lee Thompkins knows, and that's most of their current places. Oswald still has a safe house in the city that he's never used -- that might work. Getting his hands on funds will be the next problem. He could have Tony deliver it, but experience has taught him not to trust other criminals with secret caches of weapons or gold.

There's a yawn from Ed's bed, the sound of blankets shifting as he stretches and turns over. Quietly, Ed says, "You're awake."

"How could you tell?"

"No snoring."

Oswald glares at the other side of the room. "I don't snore."

"You're never awake to hear yourself snore."

"I don't--" Oswald says, stopping at the sound of another high-pitched giggle. It dies down, but the sobbing continues.

"Full moon," Ed says, as if that makes any sense.

"What?"

"Cassidy always cries through a full moon. Tomorrow will be worse. There's usually howling and that sets the others off."

Oswald grimaces. "It's hard enough sleeping here when they're not impersonating a wild pack of animals."

For a moment, they both listen to the crying. Then Ed asks casually, "You're happier in Blackgate?"

Oswald wonders if he's asking out of curiosity or if there's more to the question. "I have more control in Blackgate."

"Aren't you bored? It's the same groups, the same gangs. The same business month after month."

Not all of us dread boredom, Oswald thinks but doesn't say. "I'll take comfort and security over intellectual challenge."

Ed scoffs. "If that was true, you'd still be running Oswald's, Mr Former Mayor."

Oswald shrugs. It's a difference of motivation. He didn't run for mayor or issue crime licenses for the challenge of it. He did it to have more power and more money. It was greed, not ego. "While incarcerated, I would prefer comfort. Honestly, who wants to run the entire prison?"

Ed laughs, bright and loud in the dark. "You have six more years, Oswald. You could do it."

He virtually runs medium security. He's starting to get a toehold in max. He could take over minimum security too if he put some effort into it. Before he gets distracted by the idea, Oswald says, "That's not the point."

"What is the point?"

"I don't know!" Oswald says, louder than he meant.

There's a hissed breath. Then Ed says, "The next round is in an hour."

Oswald hears the invitation in it. He gets up and carefully feels his way over to the other bed. Ed reaches out and guides him under the blanket. Oswald settles on his side, head on Ed's chest, bad leg resting across Ed's thighs. Beneath his cheek, he can hear the steady thump of Ed's heart. He reaches up to card his fingers through Ed's recently cut hair, smiling. Oswald does enjoy getting what he wants.

"You should return to Blackgate," Ed murmurs quietly, smoothing a hand over Oswald's shoulder blades. "I appreciate the offer, but you'll hate leaving Gotham behind. Eventually, you'll hate me for making you leave."

"I wouldn't," Oswald says fervently, wanting it to be true. "And we might not have to leave."

"You couldn't spend the rest of your life being low-key. Neither could I. We both like attention and power."

"Six years," Oswald says quietly, "and I can't guarantee I'll be able to arrange another visit."

"I'm not unhappy here. It's frustrating and fascinating in equal measure."

"It's certainly not boring," Oswald allows as someone yells and starts pounding on the thick metal of a cell door. There's the clattering noise of boots, a door swinging open and the sound of a scuffle. "Any guesses who that was?"

"Sounded like Finley's cell." Ed takes a deep breath and then pulls his blanket off Oswald. "You should go back to bed. In case they check on cells on the way back."

Oswald shouldn't dawdle but… "Blackgate? You're sure?"

"I'll still be yours," Ed says, accurately exposing Oswald's true concern. "This just gives me time to work out my own escape."

"Yeah?"

"I might even pick you up when they release you."

***


	6. Chapter 6

Within a year, Oswald has control over maximum security. He runs the contraband imports and takes a cut on any other business. When the gangs have a dispute, they come to him for mediation and the Penguin's word is law. It feels a lot like being King of Gotham, and he jokes to Ed that he can add Emperor of Blackgate to his resume.

Ed writes back: " _You don't rule Blackgate until you run minimum security._ "

Oswald rolls his eyes at the taunt but carefully folds the letter away in the secret compartment hidden in his mattress. There's a small stack of Ed's letters, years of Ed's unreliable handwriting and unfailingly sharp mind. The letters themselves are friendly and criminally professional, discussions of Arkham's routines and possible weaknesses, consideration of the prison gangs' actions and what it heralds. Occasionally, Oswald will mention his club and the Gotham underworld; sometimes, Ed will mention how well his nephew is doing at school. Nothing more personal or revealing, nothing that hints at how often Oswald finds his thoughts straying to Ed's smile or long fingers, to Ed's shoulders or ridiculously long legs.

Apart from that time Oswald got caught by a lucky shank and ended up with stitches and a morphine drip in the medical wing. That night is a blur of soft, fuzzy memories, but he remembers the pen in his hand and desperately needing Ed to know he was missed. It somehow became six pages that talked about the way Ed wore a hat, Ed's reassuringly sensible driving, and that Ed was still wrong to prefer scrambled eggs to fried. The embarrassing confession that the first time they met, Oswald distinctly recalls looking up and thinking he could climb Ed like a tree. Ed had been so nerdy and nervous, and Oswald had behaved the way he always did around unexpectedly attractive people: obnoxious and superior.

Between all of that had been entire paragraphs of what Oswald wanted to do to Ed as soon as they were free. Stretching Ed out naked on Egyptian cotton sheets had featured heavily. Honestly, the whole thing was so humiliating, Oswald was glad he'd come to his senses before he sent it. Oswald personally burned it to ashes as soon as he was back in his cell. Incriminating evidence like that deserves to be destroyed.

***

It takes him the better part of three years to gain control of minimum security. They're a bunch of disorganised brats, who barely understand what a gang is, let alone respect the politics involved. He wastes time negotiating with one so-called leader after another, endlessly annoyed each time there's a coup within a faction and he has to deal with another petty rebellion.

In the end, he has Tony bribe a selection of guards and gets Jackson Weaver reassigned to minimum security. His record is non-violent, which makes the move easier, and he has more patience with stupidity. Or at least the ability to appear patient.

"I thought you were keeping me around as a distraction?" Jackson says with his perfect smile. He's still an unfairly handsome man, Oswald can't help noticing.

"Are you complaining about moving to minimum security?"

"No," Jackson says quickly, "and I appreciate the note in my file about good behaviour. I just don't understand why."

"I need someone to represent my authority in that wing." Oswald waves a hand at the other end of his cot, inviting Jackson to sit. Somehow, Jackson manages to lean confidently against the wall without taking up too much space on the bed. "I need someone who is good at reading social currents to encourage some stability over there."

"Why?"

"It's good for business," Oswald says because he can't say that Ed has started keeping track of how long it's taking him to take over the entire prison. There is very little he dislikes more than being the butt of Ed's jokes. This has become a matter of pride.

Jackson turns out to be the right choice. He's very adept at turning a reliable supply of contraband into influence and respect. Oswald hears stories from his paid guards that Jackson is also smart enough to always credit the Penguin as the head of the business. Jackson makes it known that he's only a middleman working on the Penguin's orders.

It's gratifying to hear, as gratifying as the respectful nod he gets from Stevens during a stroll around the yard. "Penguin."

"Good afternoon, Officer Stevens. How is your daughter, Lily? Still working at Kerther Lewis?" She graduated Gotham University with honours, proof that Oswald's scholarship funds had been well spent.

Stevens' face lights up with fatherly pride, but he quickly tamps it down to something more professional. "She is. She's working on an apartment building design for Kean Constructions."

"I'm glad to hear it," Oswald says, hiding his grimace at Barbara Kean's easy acceptance back into Gotham society. If you went to the right Gotham schools and your parents were members of the right country club, a little stint in Arkham and wartime profiteering can be forgotten. It's amazing that murder can be brushed aside as a rebellious phase. 

This is why Oswald -- or his lawyer on his instructions -- pays a small fortune to Martin's boarding school. When the time comes for Martin to make his way in the world, Oswald wants him to have every possible advantage.

"You know," Stevens says conversationally, "over the past five years, there's been a noticeable drop in prisoner-on-prisoner violence."

"Congratulations, my friend."

"Not completely gone," Stevens says, giving him a knowing look, "but significantly reduced."

"Eradicating violence is an ideal we should always strive towards." Oswald even manages to hold a straight face as he says it.

"We've noticed it." Stevens drops his voice lower, as if Oswald's men are stupid enough to eavesdrop when Oswald talks to guards. "In Min Sec, now. Since Weaver got transferred."

"And?" Oswald demands impatiently. If this is going to be a shakedown, he wants to hear the terms.

"Thank you," Stevens says.

"Oh," Oswald says, blinking. Stevens gives him another nod and then walks away. It's surreal. Oswald immediately wonders what Ed will think when Oswald tells him. He'll probably laugh.

***

"Johnny Wu got squashed," Tony tells him and Oswald snorts in surprise.

"What did the GCPD have on him to make him inform?"

"No, not pressured. Squashed," Tony says, pushing his palms flat together. "Car compactor."

"That's old school." A favourite of Maroni's, Oswald remembers very clearly. "Freddie Fingers?"

Tony shrugs. "That's what the rumour mill says."

Freddie Fingers has been doing the Delluci family's dirty work for nearly twenty years. He's smart enough not to brag. Thinking through the list of possible suspects, Oswald asks, "Who's running the Triad?"

"Johnny's cousin, Sammy, but I've heard his uncle is making a move against him. Makes 'em weak," Tony says, stating the obvious. "Good time to step in and take over."

Oswald shakes his head sharply. "Reach out to the cousin. Offer an alliance, my support against his uncle."

"You sure, boss?" Tony asks, looking confused.

"If we make a move, the Triad will eventually take Chinatown back. It'll be a point of pride. Better to have them owe me. They can keep their pride and their turf, and we'll start taking a cut of any new casinos." He might even let them set some up in his own territory; after all, they know the business and how to make a good profit. Much like Oswald knows how to find what people are good at and then take a generous cut for himself.

"Talking of alliances…" Tony pulls out an envelope and places it on the table. "Riddler's an ally, right? How much do you actually trust the guy?"

It's an interesting question. Oswald trusts Ed to keep his secrets. He trusts Ed to hold a weapon to his back and not use it. He trusts Ed with heists and escapes, but he doesn't trust Ed to know his own limits or to have a healthy sense of self-survival. "Enough. Why?"

Tony pushes over the envelope. In blocky capitals, Ed's written Tony's name. Oswald snatches it up and turns it over but it's still sealed. "Why is Ed writing to you?"

"Don't know, boss. That's why I brought it here." When Oswald looks up, Tony looks just scared enough that Oswald believes him. "I figured he might be trying to betray you, so you should know. Or he might be trying to make it look like I'm betraying you, so I need to tell you before he does."

"And you weren't tempted to open it first?"

"I ain't stupid." It's true but only in comparison to most of the brainless goons that work for Oswald. "No one betrays the Penguin and lives."

It truly is a blessing, Oswald thinks, to have a reputation like his. It gives him a warm glow of satisfaction.

"I doubt Ed's betraying me," Oswald says, ripping the letter open. He doesn't point out that if Ed was plotting against him, Tony wouldn't be smart enough to notice it.

The letter is in Ed's handwriting, and the tone itself is uniquely smug: " _Oswald, this is why you never get surprise presents. You're too paranoid to allow anyone to surprise you. Still, if you would allow me a little faith -- and use of your resources -- I'll deliver a birthday present you will enjoy._ "

It's signed with a thickly inked question mark, clearly drawn over and over into the page. Ed had time to ponder the wording, to review it as he schemed. Oswald can't deny he's curious. Also wary, because Ed's idea of gifts can be... unusual. Although he does know Oswald well enough to anticipate what he'll enjoy.

"He knew you'd show it to me. He wants some help arranging something on the outside. Follow his instructions." Tony nods, and Oswald has a niggle of doubt. He knows how much Ed loves big gestures. He doesn't want Tony to get caught doing something outrageous and possibly beyond his capabilities. "But if there's anything that needs explosives or weapons, check with me first."

Even if it's something Oswald would enjoy, he's not risking a steady lieutenant for the sake of drama. At the moment, his criminal empire is being effectively run. That's more valuable than a surprise gift, no matter how touched Oswald is by the amount of planning Ed seems to be putting into it.

***

Whatever Ed's planning doesn't involve weaponry. Over the next two weeks, Tony doesn't share any details with Oswald. Oswald has too much pride to beg Tony for information (and he doesn't want Tony to misunderstand his curiosity as suspicion), so he ends up asking Ed for a clue.

Ed, being Ed, sends back a riddle in his next letter:

" _Rare amongst both children and men,  
Those who have it claim time is their friend.  
Easily confused with its cousin sloth.  
You must find it within before all is lost._"

Oswald ponders it all day but it's not until he's standing in line for the cafeteria that he sees the answer. Patience! It's not even a clue, it's an order! Oswald growls in annoyance and the men queued around him shuffle away from him. He continues fuming as the line moves forward, as the inmates behind the counter serve out meals on plastic trays. It's a typical Blackgate meal: green mush that was once peas, yellow mush of overcooked corn, powdered mashed potato, and a grey-brown slop that Oswald is going to generously call meat. The most appetizing part is the square of off-brand jello for dessert. 

He eats, ignoring the food as much as he can. By the end of it, he's decided ranting at Ed will serve no practical purpose. It probably won't make Oswald feel any better and it won't make Ed share his plans.

When he gets back to his cell, Oswald nods at the cluster of men sitting around his TV -- a few new Street Demonz he doesn't know, he really should find out their names -- and gathers pen, paper and a book to write against. With his bad leg stretched out comfortably on his bed, he starts to write his reply.

" _Patience is not one of my virtues. You should know me better,_ " he starts and then replies to the rest of Ed's letter. The news that despite waking from his coma last month, Jeremiah Valeska thankfully remains little more than a vegetable. Ed's last conversation with "Foxy" about the difficulty of collecting forensic samples after heavy rainfall. (Oswald has mixed feelings about Lucius Fox continuing to represent the Wayne Foundation. On the one hand, the insane of Gotham now have basic standards of care. On the other, Ed enjoys talking to the man far too much.)

Ed also mentions the newest psychiatrist, who has enthusiastically scheduled bi-weekly sessions with every patient. Usually Ed's distrustful and dismissive of any mental health professional, but he seems to like this one. Apparently she asks interesting questions. Oswald makes a mental note to have Tony do some digging, just in case. Ed doesn't mention it but Oswald would bet good money that she'll be young, pretty and bespectacled. She's probably blonde, Oswald thinks cynically.

***

Tony's next visit falls three days before Oswald's birthday. Despite his curiosity, he's still in the dark over Ed's plans. It's made him appreciate the distraction of Don Delluci making moves on Chinatown. Every morning when Oswald checks his phone, there's a string of text messages from Tony outlining attacks and casualties. Oswald's waiting to see Sammy Wu's reaction before he commits to either side. If Sammy asks for help, he'll honour their alliance but he'll avoid a war with one of the main families if he can.

They discuss the details of the Triad and Sammy's troublemaking uncle. Oswald orders, "Keep eyes on him. Make it subtle but see if he tries to make a deal with Delucci."

Tony scratches his thick neck, just above the neatly ironed collar of his tailored shirt. "Do you think he will?"

"Humour me." If Ed was here, he might explain that Sammy's uncle thinks leading the Triad should be his by rights but he doesn't have the manpower to take control. A deal with Delucci would be much like Sammy's alliance with Oswald, except Oswald wouldn't benefit from it. Of course, if Ed was here, he wouldn't have to explain it. "How are Riddler's plans going?"

"He said it would work perfectly, boss." Tony shrugs. "If you ask me, I'd allow a few extra days for everything to happen, but he swears it'll work."

"Nothing that requires weapons?"

"Bribery, mostly. I could arrange a call if you wanted to talk to him about it."

He doesn't need to talk to Ed, but it's been nearly two years since he heard Ed's voice. That was an indulgence for Oswald's fortieth birthday, as much of a celebration as he could manage in here. "That's a good idea. Set up a call during your visit next week."

"Will do, boss."

***

In the predictable routine of prison, one day passes much like any other. Oswald wakes up when the cell block lights come on and other prisoners get yelled at. (Not Oswald. Guards that yell at Oswald find their shifts suddenly moved to other blocks. The other guards are very quick to police it before Oswald has to threaten anyone.) He washes his face and brushes his teeth over the tiny sink in his cell and then gets dressed. He stands beside his door for count and then walks in line to the cafeteria, to a dull breakfast of porridge, powdered eggs and a cold slice of toast.

It might be his birthday, but that doesn't change the routine. He returns to his cell for the next count and then spends an hour in the library reading yesterday's paper, returning one book and carefully choosing another. He's back in his cell for the next count, watching TV with a few of his men. There's nothing of note being reported, other than an attempted jewelry store robbery. For a moment, Oswald was excited, wondering if that was Ed's mystery present. But the robbers were caught before they left the premises, and Ed wouldn't have planned such a doomed heist. Besides, the robbers had shotguns and Tony would have told him if it involved weapons.

Oswald turns his attention back to his book. Clearly, something went wrong or got delayed. There's no point being disappointed by a failure beyond Ed's control, not when Ed clearly put thought and attention into planning this. It's a strange comfort to think Ed will be upset enough for the both of them; he takes it very personally when a plan fails.

Oswald goes to the bathroom to turn his phone on, but there aren't any messages. It's not like he was expecting a birthday message from Tony -- he's an employee, not a friend -- and no news is generally good news. He returns his phone to its hiding place when no one's looking, and then lines up for lunch.

Birthdays always make him nostalgic. Make him remember his mother fussing around the dinner table, piling up carefully wrapped presents, and making him eat all of his dinner before he could open one. It didn't matter that the presents were usually secondhand clothes, things that were a little too large but he was sure to grow into this year. It didn't matter that she'd wrapped up things they had to buy anyway, like school supplies or reading books. It mattered that it was for him. That she spent hours cooking and baking to make them a feast, that she took the time to wrap everything and tie it off with ribbon and bows, that she did everything she could to show Oswald that he was her world. That he was loved and important and cherished.

"Oh, my little Cobblepot, how lucky you are," she'd say every year, smiling as she lit the candles. "So handsome, so clever. What more could you wish for?"

Oswald can still remember those nights. The smell of paprika and onions, the warm sweetness of plum cake cooling on the oven. It's a far cry from Blackgate's typical lunches of baked beans and fried rice, hotdogs and cornbread, but the memory is so strong that Oswald can almost smell it.

There's a muttering further up the line, where the cafeteria is serving. Oswald frowns. It probably means they're getting mystery meat with gravy for lunch. It's the kind of mystery no one wants to solve.

He overhears one of the inmates ask, "What is that?" and get shushed by the guy beside him.

That catches Oswald's attention. He steps forward, gratified by how swiftly the line moves aside to let him through. 

At the serving station, he has to stop and blink at the familiar foods in front of him. No bland mush, no processed unidentifiable meats. No, it's the deep red of goulash with hearty chunks of beef, potatoes and carrots. The pale pink of sour cherry soup and the bright orange of chicken paprikash. The next tray has thick rolls of stuffed cabbage, sour cream already spread across the tops, starting to melt at the edges. And on the dessert tray, what his mother would call gesztenyepüré and Oswald would always call chestnut mousse, although he doubts they've been able to add the rum the recipe deserves.

"What'll you have?" the serving inmate asks.

"Everything," Oswald says, staring in wonder at the foods from his childhood. He doesn't have to ask for a generous serving; there's barely any space left on the tray. He sits down to eat it and a group of Lo Boyz move to sit around him. 

"Is this your doing, boss?" Mando asks, nodding at the tray. "Because that chicken was good."

"Beef was better," Damon says beside him and someone else argues for the chicken again.

"Goulash," Oswald says, and the table quiets. "The beef was goulash."

Damon grins. "It's good. Spicy. Better than the bland food we usually get."

"My mother used to make it exactly like this." Exactly. At first, Oswald thought it was the occasion plus years of Blackgate's dull institutional food making him think of her, but all of the dishes are made the way she would. The gesztenyepüré might be lacking rum and the goulash might have more carrot than she used, but it's too close to be a coincidence.

When the meal is finished and most of the other inmates have left, Oswald stays sitting. "I need to talk to the kitchen crew," he tells Mando, who nods.

"You want company, boss?"

"No need," Oswald says and most of the Lo Boyz head out to the yard. A few stay sitting at a table near the door, just in case, and give Oswald a nod as he walks over to the kitchen. The guard, Pelosi, sees Oswald walk towards the kitchen and turns his back.

The kitchen is filled with the clattering of dishes, water running as pots are scrubbed. It gives Oswald a sudden flash of memory, standing over the sinks at Maroni's, scrubbing plate after plate, his hands pruned and red, his bad leg aching. But all that drudgery and fear paid off in the end.

Oswald stops in the doorway and waits. Blackgate uses minimum security prisoners to work the kitchens, and it doesn't take long for one of them to see Oswald. He knows they recognise him by the fear on their faces and the sudden drop in conversation. Oswald smiles. "I came to offer my compliments to the chef."

There are nervous glances and then a middle-aged man with ashy blond hair steps forward. In a thick Hungarian accent, he says, "Mr Penguin, sir. You approve?"

"You're the chef?"

He swallows nervously. "Yes. Fekete Bendegúz."

"And my people recruited you?"

Bendegúz looks nervous. He glances back at the others but nobody meets his eyes. "Was something wrong with the meal? Did you not like it?"

"The meal was excellent," Oswald says honestly. "I wanted to make sure you were being compensated for your effort."

"Oh, yes," Bendegúz says quickly. "As we agreed. Three years. Forty thousand per year. Green card for me and my family when done."

Trust Ed to work out the best way to motivate someone. "I do have one question. The recipes. Where did you get them?"

"Book. Here." Bendegúz pulls an exercise book from the table, and pushes it into Oswald's hands. "We did the best we could, but ingredients… limited here."

"Talk to Jackson Weaver," Oswald says, turning page after page of Ed's handwriting. "Give him a list of the things you need. I'll find a way to supply the kitchen."

He knows these recipes. These are his mother's recipes. Hers were handwritten too, in a blue leather-bound journal she claimed had been a present from a sweetheart. It went missing years ago, probably taken by Sofia Falcone or someone working for her. But here they are, painstakingly copied by Ed. Carefully, Oswald closes the book and hands it back.

***

Oswald has to wait a few days for Tony's next visit and unfortunately, business comes before pleasure. The first call they make is to Don Delucci to discuss Chinatown. Oswald leaves the phone on speaker, wanting Tony to hear every word of the conversation.

"We have some overlapping business concerns," Oswald says, and Don Delucci snorts.

"I don't think we do. If there's an opportunity to expand my territory, that doesn't have anything to do with you."

"It does when I've already promised my support to Sammy Wu."

"Maybe he shouldn't have gone to someone locked up for support." Don Delucci laughs at his own joke. Oswald realises that playing nice won't get him anywhere.

He allows the sneer to show on his face and in his tone. "Gotham's underworld used to be run by the five families, but that was before me. Now, there are three families left. Please believe that I will have no regrets if that needs to be whittled down further."

"You're threatening us? Over Chinatown?"

"I have an alliance with the Triad."

"You have an alliance with us!" Don Delucci yells back. Oswald feels a spiteful glow of satisfaction from that loss of control. "Just because you run the Diamond District doesn't mean you own Gotham, you--"

"Now, now," Oswald says sweetly, "let's not resort to name-calling. You might live to regret it. ...If you're lucky."

The threat hangs in the air, and then Don Delucci says, "Chinatown is weak. We can take it, split it between us."

"It's under my protection," Oswald repeats because any sensible gangster in the city would avoid a war with the Penguin. Oswald's known to be clever, vicious and bloodthirsty, and those are his good traits. "But Seventeenth Avenue and the casino there. Technically, that's Little Korea, and the Triad only expanded into there a few years ago. You can have it as a gesture of goodwill."

"Goodwill, huh? What's the catch?"

"Perhaps a return gesture. Like delivering Sammy's uncle to him. Nothing says caring like family."

"Yeah," Don Delucci says slowly, clearly realising where his best interests lie. "We can do that."

"I'm so glad we understand each other." Oswald leans over the table to disconnect the call. To Tony, he says, "Tell me when he delivers Sammy's uncle. If it takes them more than a week, we might have to remind the Deluccis of a few things."

"Yes, boss," Tony says easily, pulling the phone to him. "You want me to call Riddler now?"

"Give me that," Oswald says, snatching the phone back as soon as it starts to ring. Oswald paces over to the other side of the room, the grey painted brick wall, and lifts the phone to his ear.

"Happy belated birthday," Ed says as soon as it connects. "Did you like your present?"

"How did you find my mother's recipes?"

"You were kept late at a meeting in City Hall. I was waiting for you because I needed your approval on a few details, and Olga left it open on the table. I was bored. I read it."

"That was years ago," Oswald says and he can hear the wonder in his own voice. "You wrote them out again from memory?"

"Yeah," Ed says as if it's hardly worth mentioning. Oswald's glad he's facing the wall; he has no idea what lovesick expression would be on his face. "You liked it?"

Oswald has enjoyed many birthdays, has known how it feels to be beloved and treasured. This may be the best one yet. "I can honestly say I can't remember the last time I was so moved by a gesture."

"Good," Ed says, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Although my nephew should get partial credit for sparking the idea."

"And he's well?"

"Still has to get through exams, but he's thinking of studying in Paris next year."

***


	7. Chapter 7

The warden agrees to Oswald's request for a meeting, but keeps Oswald waiting while he answers his phone. Oswald looks around the office, and his attention falls on a new painting. It's an oil painting of a riverside in Paris, the dark shadow of the Eiffel Tower rising against a dawn sky of pinks and oranges. There are cobblestone paths and low stone walls, with ornate bridges reaching across the calm water. At first, it looks like an empty landscape but, on the far side of the river, under the dappled shade of trees, there are three men standing in the shadows, two men in dark suits and a third in a bright green jacket.

Oswald looks for the artist's signature and finds a suspiciously familiar scrawl in the bottom corner. It's underlined messily, or perhaps that's a crude, childish drawing of a knife. Oswald grins. It's the first time he's seen Martin's art with his own eyes. He'll have to thank Ed in his next letter.

Oswald wants to run his hands over the frame and the backing, check if any other presents were hidden in that donation, but he doesn't. Ed would know a prisoner is unlikely to have enough time alone in the warden's office to retrieve anything. Too much risk for very little reward.

"Where did you get this?" Oswald asks when Warden Lott hangs up the phone. Jacob Lott is fifty and greying, happy to run Blackgate until he retires. Quite happy to run it while Oswald subsidises the kitchens and minimises the reported violence within the prison, even if he likes occasionally reminding Oswald that he's a prisoner, to be kept waiting at Lott's convenience.

The warden scratches at his generous grey moustache. "Got donated to us. It's not the most useful donation for a prison."

"Generosity comes in many shapes," Oswald says. If he looks very carefully, there's a hint of purple on the painted figure with a cane and a top hat.

"Yeah," Warden Lott agrees, in a tone that suggests he'd prefer a more useful shape. "Now, Penguin, what do you need?"

"A tailor."

The warden eyes the loose-fitting denim shirt and the jeans that Oswald has had to roll at the ankles. "That's as good as our tailoring gets."

"I would like a tailor to visit me. I would like a room where I could be measured without being seen by anyone walking past." 

If it was another prison or another prisoner, the warden might object on principle. But they both know if Oswald wanted to bring in weapons or anything else, he wouldn't need to ask for permission to do it. 

"Your release date is months away. Maybe we should talk about this closer to that."

"In four months, I will be walking out of Blackgate a free man and I will be dressed accordingly," Oswald says firmly. "A good suit takes three months to make."

Oswald stares at Warden Lott until he looks away, glancing at the paperwork on his desk. "You can use one of the activity rooms, but you'll have to have a guard supervising. We can't break the rules for particular prisoners."

Oswald smiles. "Of course not, Warden."

***

The tailor arrives with a swatch of fabrics, two freestanding mirrors and an assistant to scurry back and forth with it all. The process of getting his measurements taken always makes Oswald think of his father, the man's careless joy in sharing a skill and tradition, the generous way he taught Oswald the formalities of a good suit and never judged Oswald's patchy knowledge. Knowledge he'd strung together from watching the men at Fish Mooney's club, expensive suits and cheap indulgences. He'd been hungry to know it all, but not everything can be understood from the outside. 

Oswald can't help pulling a face at his own reflection. He can see the effect of two years of comfort food and generous servings, ten years of having little to do but read and occasionally stroll around the yard. He noticed getting larger uniforms and a little softness under his chin, a little more weight on his jaw, but the paunch is far more obvious standing in front of two mirrors in underwear and a T-shirt. There's weight on his belly, his chest and his back. Even his thighs are wider than they used to be. He makes an effort to set his shoulders straight, to avoid the hunch that he slopes into by habit now. It doesn't help much.

For a moment, he doubts the wisdom of procuring a tailor. But he has to wear something when he leaves Blackgate and at least this way it will fit him. Certainly none of the clothes he left behind would.

After the measurements are taken and Oswald changes back into the baggy denim uniform, the tailor sits down with sketch paper and fabric swatches. "Did you have something particular in mind, Mr Cobblepot?"

"What would you suggest?" The last suit he wore was double-breasted and slim-fitting. He doubts either option would work now.

"Choice of suits is very personal," Mr Haversham says, pausing with his pencil over the page. He's been Oswald's tailor since the mayoral days and Oswald still doesn't know his first name. Or if Haversham is actually his surname. But he takes cash and will replace the arm of a suit jacket without mentioning the blood stains. "Given your physique and your reputation, perhaps something… with a little drama?"

"Like what?"

Haversham starts sketching, pencil moving quickly across the page. "A morning coat. Formal, yes, but contrasting lapels would draw attention to your shoulders and create a visual V. Keep the rest of the suit simple. A single-breasted vest, possibly in dove grey. A wide tie to balance the coat. Perhaps pinstripes on the trousers for the illusion of height." When he turns the sketchbook around, it's a surprisingly elegant look. Oswald has always been fond of tails on jackets and he's never shied away from a statement tie.

It looks a little unfinished, but he likes the concept. "Colours?"

"A solid colour for the morning coat, and monochrome for the rest of the outfit. Perhaps navy?"

"Purple," Oswald insists and the tailor starts paging through fabric samples.

Before the tailor leaves, Oswald has him sketch out a second copy of the planned suit. He folds it up with his next letter to Ed, trusting Ed to understand what will look good on him.

It takes nearly a week to get a reply from Ed. Ed's letters have been getting more erratic in the last six months, since his glasses were cracked in a scuffle with some other patients. Oswald has offered to buy more but Ed refuses to share his prescription, so Oswald now has to wait for letters and be thankful if they're more than a few sentences.

" _You need a hat,_ " Ed writes. " _You'd look good in a top hat._ "

***

Meeting with his tailor every few weeks feels like a tiny slice of freedom. An hour or so when Oswald feels like his old self before prison bars and uniformed guards were part of his everyday life. He bristles when Haversham says, "Have you considered glasses?"

"My eyesight is fine," Oswald barks back, choosing to ignore the fact that he has to close his bad eye to read anything. He's been doing it for years now.

"I simply noticed..." The tailor waves a hand at Oswald's face, and Oswald scowls. He is in his mid-forties; he is not old enough to need glasses. "And given the top hat and the morning coat, a monocle would work with this outfit."

"My father had one," Oswald says, considering. "For fine needlework."

"One further suggestion," Haversham says, as if Oswald is the type of man who encourages suggestions, "insist on the frame being black or grey to work with the outfit."

Oswald makes a mental note to arrange an appointment with the visiting optometrist. Usually, those appointments need to be made months in advance, but Oswald's quite certain that someone will be more than willing to give up their spot. By now, most prisoners understand that a request from the Penguin is not optional.

"Now about the second suit." Haversham turns to his sketchbook and flicks to a sketch coloured in bright shades of green. "The measurements I have on file are several years old. Are they likely to be accurate?"

"More likely than getting updated measurements." The last time he saw Ed was six years ago, when Oswald had barely changed, but he can't imagine Ed's changed much. Oswald pictures Ed's hair longer and unkempt, more numbers sewn into his uniform, but that brilliant smile of his would be the same, sharply knowing and dangerous. Same graceful hands, same obscenely long legs. He might be wrong but Oswald would rather take the risk than spoil the surprise.

"I'll increase the allowance in the seams to give some flexibility," Haversham says, looking at the ceiling as he thinks, then aiming a pointed glance at Oswald's gut. "But only some."

Oswald has the brief urge to slam Haversham's head against the table, but if Oswald breaks his nose, he probably won't finish Oswald's suit. And Oswald does like the suit.

"And you are quite certain of the fabric choices?" Haversham asks, as if he didn't once make Ed a jacket of green sequins. It had not been a cheap jacket. Oswald remembers his own disbelief and outrage when he saw it listed on his monthly account. Of course, he paid it, but he was tempted to personally drag Ed out of the Narrows by his very shiny lapels for that stunt.

"Do you have any specific concerns?"

"The screen printing may be… difficult."

"I'm sure you'll find a way and charge me accordingly." Oswald doesn't miss the way Haversham smiles at that.

***

Oswald hoped to get one last reply from Ed before he left Blackgate but Ed hasn't written in the last two weeks. Oswald knows how Ed gets about rules and expectations. He knows they agreed to wait for a reply before sending the next letter, but he doesn't have a choice. Ed might be sulking about Oswald's release or Ed might be fascinated by some new inmate, but either way Oswald can't walk out of prison without saying something to Ed.

The first draft Oswald writes is sappy and sentimental, with declarations that feel like bedrock statements, solid enough to build a future upon. Oswald only finishes half a page before he throws it out. Ed has never appreciated emotional confessions, and the looming change of circumstances makes everything feel tenuous and fragile. The last thing Oswald wants to do is scare Ed off.

The second letter is more to the point:

_"Ed,  
I have faith in your abilities, but I do not have endless patience. You have ten days.  
If you are still in Arkham next Monday, there will be a jailbreak.  
Yours,  
Oswald"_

Oswald reads it over twice, still unsure. He can't leave without sending something, and he doesn't know what else he could say. Finally, Oswald gives it to Stevens to post, just to remove the temptation to message Tony and have him free Ed now.

In general, Oswald trusts his instincts. It's kept him alive when the odds were against him; it's helped him seize every opportunity that's come his way. But he wants Ed too desperately to risk a wrong step. Oswald is rarely paralysed by indecision and, tellingly, it only happens around Ed.

Sometimes, Oswald wishes his mother had warned him. That love wasn't always a grand adventure, a treasure worth pursuing even if the end was tragic. That love will make you doubt, will leave you unmoored, will make you compromise and act against your better judgement. It wouldn't have changed any of Oswald's actions but at least he wouldn't have been surprised.

***

The morning of his release, Oswald dresses very carefully. In the small, grimy, metal-framed mirror of his cell, his reflection is uncertain. Far too timid for the man he's become. He settles the top hat on his head and adjusts the monocle, and allows himself one deep breath to worry about his unknown future. Then he forces the Penguin's thin-lipped smile onto his face and turns toward the bars.

He leaves his uniform folded on his bed. His TV and other worldly goods have already been distributed among his men -- he considered auctioning them but what is he going to do with a small fortune in cigarettes? He's gifted control of each wing to specific groups, leaving Jackson Weaver in control of Minimum Security and Mando in charge of Medium. Out of criminal largesse, he's agreed to continue smuggling contraband into the prison -- well, criminal largesse and promised loyalty on the outside. If he continues to control Blackgate, he has leverage over every gang in Gotham. Everyone has someone serving time.

He tucks his cell phone into his jacket pocket, beside that first letter from Martin. (Oswald does learn from his mistakes. He won't trust any of his men, no matter how loyal, with any details of Martin's existence.) He takes a breath, and then follows the guard down the grey corridors of Blackgate, hoping he'll never see them again.

As expected, his release is a media circus. Now he's glad he gave his collection of Ed's letters to Tony at their last meeting. If his image is going to be splashed across Gotham's newspapers, he will be dignified, not a broken prisoner cradling letters to his chest.

Oswald leaves Blackgate with every intention to let bygones be bygones. To start anew and leave old grudges in the past. That lasts until he's outside for all of three minutes and sees the irksome and obvious GCPD officers watching him from across the street. Despite the reporters and the flashes of cameras, the police are still here, watching Oswald's every move, trying to trap him again.

After everything he's done for this city! Everything he still does.

It's not especially hard to lose them. A quick change of clothes, his jacket bundled up in his arms, and a back alley. It's hilariously easy to take the back entrance to the club without any of Gordon's detectives spotting him. He lets himself into his old office and takes a moment to smile at the place. It hasn't changed at all. The small ornate chandeliers hang from either side of the window, framing his heavy desk and the padded back of his throne-like chair. Oswald walks around, letting his fingers drag over the wooden curls and edges. He sits down and finds his old ottoman still under the desk, the perfect height to elevate his bad leg without anyone seeing. It feels like being home.

He waits quietly for twenty minutes, and the manager jolts back in shock when he walks into the office and sees Oswald. He's young and fairly forgettable, with average looks and blond-brown hair, but Damian had recommended him before leaving and the club has continued to make a modest profit in its own right. (On paper, it's far more successful, making enormous cash sales with very low overhead costs, and all of those profits legally paid to Oswald. Of course, most of that cash has illegal origins, but a club is a wonderful way to launder ill-gotten gains.)

Oswald smiles from behind his desk. "Good day, Mr Haas."

Haas takes a shaky breath, hand pressed to his chest. He blinks and then says, "Mr Penguin, sir. I didn't know you were here."

"That was the point. Let Tony know I'm waiting for him," Oswald says with raised eyebrows. On a whim, he adds, "Bring me the books for the last month. I want to know how my club is doing."

"Yes, sir." Haas scampers out. Sometimes, Oswald truly enjoys being the Penguin.

He doesn't care too much about the financial ledgers, but it gives him something to do while he waits for Tony. Haas comes back with them, both the copy kept for the IRS and the real one, and places them on Oswald's desk. "Thank you, Mr Haas."

"It's Jay," he says, managing a smile that almost looks genuine. He may look unimpressive, but the young man bounces back fast. Oswald makes a mental note to keep an eye on him. "Everyone calls me Jay."

"Thank you, Jay."

"And just so you know, sir, the GCPD have staked out the club. The front entrance and the side entrance."

"But not the back?"

"We never use the back." It's nice to know Oswald's instructions are still followed. There's no point having a secret entrance if it's used so often the GCPD know about it.

Tony is a career criminal who has never done time. He may not be the smartest man in the room, but he's reliably levelheaded, smart enough to keep an established routine even when the police are watching. It's why Oswald has to wait an hour for him to come to the club: there's no point in Oswald sneaking into the club if Tony rushes over and shows the GCPD exactly where Oswald is.

"Hey, boss," Tony says with a nod. "Good to see you back there."

"Only because I assumed the GCPD have staked out the manor."

"Yep. The manor, the club, the hideout on Thirteenth. Only started today."

"The day I was released? I haven't even committed a crime yet!"

Tony shrugs. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to have a chat with an old friend of mine. I'm going to need a gun." Tony pulls a sleek black handgun from his pocket and hands it over. He doesn't ask why Oswald needs it. "I'll go out the back way. Keep the driver on standby."

"You got my number, boss. Call me if you need cleanup."

***

Some things come back easily to Oswald. He might have been in prison for the last decade, but it's still easy to unlock Jim Gordon's car and slip into the backseat. As gratifying as it is to hold Gordon at gunpoint and make him drive to the pier, Jim Gordon is as frustrating as he's ever been. Still irritatingly handsome, still annoyingly righteous as he tries to talk Oswald out of something he's not even planning to do. 

Oswald's a little offended that Gordon believes his rant about finishing their story. He's not Ed; he's never been driven by the compulsive urge to finish something where it started. Jim Gordon should know him better than that. Oswald brought Gordon out here to scare him and allow him to escape with his life. 

The pier is dark and deserted, a perfect place to dump a body. As tempted as he is, Oswald doesn't actually shoot the police commissioner on his first day out of prison. Oswald does make a few things clear: that he will take it personally if Gordon continues this police harassment. That the Penguin is a force to be reckoned with and will shoot a commissioner if required. (He's never had to, but a little fear is healthy for an official.) Oswald might lose his temper a little, but the point gets across.

As expected, Gordon dives off the pier. He's so smug that Oswald allows himself the petty satisfaction of a few wild shots into the dark river. There's a cold comfort in knowing how icy that water is at night. It will take Gordon at least half an hour to swim to safety, longer to find a working phone.

Oswald calls his driver to pick him up. He leaves Gordon's car unlocked with the keys still in the ignition. Smiles to himself as he thinks about the odds of it still being here when the GCPD comes to get it.

Then Oswald thinks about what Gordon said, what he assumed Oswald already knew: attacking the Wayne gala, breaking Nygma out of Arkham, the attacks on the gangs. For once, Oswald's innocent of all charges. If Ed escaped early, he might want a spectacle. Something big to announce his return. A threat against Wayne Tower makes sense. It's the grand reopening, a night when Gotham's elite will be dressed in their finest and standing around congratulating themselves. The event would call to Ed with a siren's song.

Ed must have already found clothing, but he might prefer to make his public debut in a bespoke suit. Oswald calls Haversham. He'll pick up Ed's suit on the way to Wayne Tower. Or he might've, if someone hadn't collected it yesterday.

"Who?" Oswald demands, frowning as his limo turns at the end of the street. He waves it over.

"One of your men," Haversham says because anyone collecting on the Penguin's behalf wouldn't need to give a name. No one's going to ask them for ID.

From the warmth of the back seat, Oswald calls Tony. He doesn't bother asking if one of Tony's men collected the suit; Tony wouldn't overstep like that. This is someone else. Someone who has been paying close attention to Ed and Oswald. "The GCPD guarding the Wayne event tonight. Are any of them ours?"

"I'd have to check, boss. How come?"

"We're going to need someone to extract the Riddler." It's a hunch, but Oswald knows he's right. It's too coincidental that someone is using Oswald's name and has freed Ed. Someone wants to point fingers at Oswald and Ed, use their reputations to distract the GCPD. It's the kind of distraction that will end with Ed back in handcuffs.

"I'll find out who we've got. Get someone to do an extra shift if we have to."

"And the manor?"

"The police just took off, boss. Made a lot of noise leaving."

Good. So Gordon made his way to a phone and told his officers that Oswald isn't behind this. Given enough breadcrumbs, Gordon might even realise Ed's not behind this. "Tell Olga to prepare for company."

***

The rescue doesn't go precisely as planned. Oswald manages to extract Ed from police custody but before they can do much more than greet each other, a dark figure drops from the night sky and dents Oswald's limousine. Covered in black pleather and wearing a stupid mask with bat ears, the man has the unbelievable gall to claim Gotham for his own. He doesn't pull out a gun or a knife, or try to threaten or bribe them. No, he simply growls a demand at the Riddler and the Penguin, and then drops Ed with one punch, spinning to knock Oswald out with a ridiculous karate kick.

When Oswald comes to, he finds himself tied back-to-back with Ed, hanging from a streetlight. It's infuriating. It's mortifying, and it's only his first day out of Blackgate. Oswald's too angry to do anything but yell, although screaming insults at his driver doesn't make the man suddenly regain consciousness. When Oswald falls silent, Ed starts yelling. Nothing terribly inventive, just "Help!" and "Get us down!" and angry noises of frustration. 

"What are you doing?" Oswald asks, twisting to look over his shoulder. He can only spot the edge of Ed's bowler hat. The rope loops around his chest, firm enough to hold steady but not tight enough to restrict breathing. It's disconcerting, feeling his feet just hanging in midair.

"It's steel rope covered with polypropylene," Ed replies. "The only way we're getting down from here is if someone cuts us down. The sooner someone finds us, the quicker we'll be back on the ground."

Oswald cranes his neck forward, but the ground looks at least ten feet away. Even if he could cut through the rope, he's not sure he wants to. "The quicker you'll be back in police custody and heading to Arkham."

"You don't think they'd ship you back to Blackgate?"

Oswald laughs. "Would you like to know the one advantage to the DA insisting on no parole?"

"Oh," Ed says happily. "They have to charge you again. They can't simply lock you up for breaking your parole. They need a guilty verdict."

Ed wriggles, shoulders and hips twisting against Oswald's and making both of them sway dangerously. Oswald kicks out in surprise and his heel connects sharply with Ed's leg. At least Ed stops squirming. 

"How did you escape?" Oswald asks, coming to the sad realization that anyone who recognises them will probably call the GCPD, and Arkham's security is probably about to get several improvements. Possibly courtesy of Lucius Fox himself.

"Got abducted. Woke up in a basement. There was a letter with your signature."

Oswald raises judgemental brows. "Did you really think I'd break you out on the very day I got released? Even Detective Bullock might put that together."

Ed snorts. "It was the day before, but, yes, I did think it was you. Are you really going to tell me you didn't have a plan to get me out of Arkham?"

"I wrote to you. Gave you until next Monday, in case you insisted on escaping on your own."

"What I don't understand," Ed says after a moment, "is the suit. This is Haversham's work, I'm sure of it. I thought it had to be from you."

"It was. Someone else picked it up early."

A soft breath. "You had it made for me?"

"I wasn't going to leave you in Arkham stripes," Oswald says, echoing Ed's soft tone. Ed's hand brushes his, and then Ed's fingers wrap around his palm. They have seen each other naked. It's quite ridiculous to feel his throat close up over something as innocent as hand-holding.

"Ready to start yelling again?" Ed asks. He keeps their hands entwined.

***

They're both right. It takes the GCPD and a firetruck to cut them down, and the first thing the GCPD does is place them both in handcuffs and shove them in the back of a van. Luckily, Ed has always been skilled at picking locks and handcuffs, and, after a jarring roll from the back of a moving vehicle, they're free again.

***

Oswald stares up at the dark buildings above them. The night sky seems empty now, but he definitely saw a shape move in the darkness. It's all well and good defending Gotham against hooded vigilantes, but Oswald doesn't have any weapons on him and he believes in bringing the right tools for a job. "Tomorrow?"

Ed swallows, glancing over at Oswald. "Tomorrow."

Together, they turn and walk away as quickly as dignity will allow. Ed leads them up the street, taking a left turn and then a right, and finally stopping in a dark alley. "Where are we going?"

"I was following you!" Oswald splutters.

"Yes, and now we won't be seen by passing police cars," Ed growls back. "So we have time to work out where we're going."

Oswald leans down and pulls up his trouser leg. He's glad he took the time to find a leg brace this afternoon. It's thinner than his old one, able to fit under loosely tailored pants. It doesn't have space for an easily reached knife, but it was a good place to quickly stash his phone while the GCPD put them in handcuffs.

"Who are you calling?" Ed asks.

"Tony. Where are we?"

"Kingston Alley. Off Eighty-Sixth and Leacher."

Tony answers on the first ring. "Boss?"

"I'm at Kingston Alley. Near--" Oswald looks over at Ed, and Ed mutters the street names for him again. "--Eighty-Sixth and Leacher. Send someone to pick us up. Make sure they're armed."

Oswald disconnects the call, and there's silence for a few minutes. Ed paces from one side of the alley to the other, finally leaning one shoulder against the brick wall. His hat is tilted down, covering his face in shadow. "You could drop me by the docks. There are always abandoned warehouses. I'll find a place to lie low."

Oswald squints at him. Running from an enemy puts Oswald in a bad mood every time; he doesn't have the patience for whatever this is. "I could, or I could take you back to the manor, where the police will need a search warrant to enter the premises. Believe me, I have enough judges in my pockets to indefinitely delay that paperwork."

Ed gives a dubious hum.

Oswald receives a text message that Tony's men are on their way, fifteen more minutes. He tells Ed and then leans against the opposite wall to wait. It feels like the first chance he's had tonight to really look at Ed, to see how well the coat follows the width of his shoulders, how good he looks with the black shirt collar against his neck. Oswald likes the subtle green polka dots on the waistcoat and the contrasting silver backing of the tie. Ed's legs look impossibly long in those pants, but it's the boots that make Oswald stop and stare.

Oswald ordered practical black boots, shoes appropriate for an adult, not glittery silver-heeled boots that would show the first drop of blood. It's a very... particular choice.

For a moment, Oswald thinks of Barbara Kean, but she wouldn't endanger her own position with anything obviously underhanded. Even when she needs planning approvals pushed through council, she has her middlemen meet Oswald's middlemen -- she wouldn't take the risk of interfering with Ed's escape.

"What?" Ed asks when he notices Oswald staring at his shoes. "I like them."

"They were with the suit?"

"In the same box." Ed stands up straight. He holds one foot out and to the side, like a ballet dancer caught mid-pose. "You didn't choose them?"

Oswald shakes his head. Of all the criminals Oswald's known, there are very few who'd consider such an outrageous fashion choice. Even fewer who would consider it for someone else. The idea comes to him with growing dread. "Valeska was definitely brain-damaged?"

"I stabbed him in the thigh and he didn't flinch."

"You could withstand that."

"Not without reacting in some way," Ed says, but Oswald knows that thoughtful tone. Ed's not disagreeing, he's reasoning it out. "There are medications that can paralyse you. He could have used drugs to maintain the pretence while in the common areas. He wasn't wheeled out every day. But who wakes up from a coma and fakes a vegetative state?"

"For years," Oswald adds, thinking it's a long time to keep up any charade, let alone one so physically demeaning. "He was rather obsessed with the Wayne heir."

"And little Brucie was supposed to return to Gotham tonight. He didn't show, but--"

"You were the distraction." While the GCPD was finding Ed, the Wayne kid was probably being kidnapped or worse. Combining a lot of money with Gotham's unreliable policing spells disaster for any honest criminal. There's no telling who the GCPD will pin the crime on.

"We're going back to the manor to wait this out," Oswald decides and Ed nods, understanding the seriousness of their situation.

"The GCPD will always find a patsy," Ed mutters darkly.

***

In Oswald's absence, the manor has been maintained impeccably. Walking through the front door makes the last ten years feel like someone else's life. This is home. Having Ed walk in behind him only strengthens the feeling.

Oswald wanders through the sitting room and the dining room, following the smell of freshly baked bread to the kitchen. In a black dress and white apron, Olga stands over the sink, scrubbing at a baking pan. Her hair is still a platinum blonde that defies nature and she still curses in Russian as she scrubs.

Oswald steps into the room, and she turns, giving him a frown that's almost fond. "Ah, Mr Penguin, welcome home."

"Thank you, Olga. I appreciate you coming back to work for me."

Olga hums, shrugging hefty shoulders. "I never left."

"What?"

"Mr Tony, he say you arrested for ten years," she says, her accent still thick after all these years. "He also say, you know what boss like. If circumstance change and you come home, he don't want to be the one explaining why house is a mess."

Ed laughs brightly, turning to face Oswald. "If anyone might come home early because they changed their mind, it would be you."

"Thank you for staying, then," Oswald says to Olga, ignoring Ed.

"Good pay, easy job. No one to leave mess." Olga pulls the hand towel from the oven door and dries her hands. "Did you eat? There is goulash in fridge and I made lamb sandwiches."

Ed looks hopeful. "Roast lamb? With tomato chutney?"

"Sandwiches will be fine," Oswald says when Olga ignores Ed too.

Olga pulls out a platter of sandwiches, cut into quarters. Enough to feed Oswald and another four men. She places two plates down on the table with a sharp clatter and glares at Ed. "I go make up guest room."

"Thank you, Olga," Oswald says because he's not going to discuss sleeping arrangements with the staff. Especially not with Olga, who's never liked Ed. Olga's always been obvious about preferring Oswald.

It really does feel like he's stepped back in time. Like it's a late night after City Hall meetings, like they'll take sandwiches into the sitting room and eat while they strategize. It's the familiarity of having Ed here.The easy way Ed hums and then gets up, taking two glasses out of the cupboard and fetching mineral water from the fridge. He pours one for Oswald and fills the other with tap water, and brings them back to the table.

Ed goes back to eating his sandwich, and Oswald smiles.

***

Usually Oswald would begrudge any offer of help, but it's been a long day with more running than he'd prefer. He's actually thankful when Ed offers his arm at the foot of the stairs. Oswald might lean more than Ed was expecting, but Ed only tenses his arm to provide more support. When they get to flat ground, Oswald could let go, but he doesn't. 

Ed looks confused when Oswald continues down the corridor, but he keeps pace. "You passed the guest rooms."

Oswald turns to face Ed so that he can clearly see Oswald roll his eyes. "You're not sleeping in a guest room."

"I used to--"

"Mine," Oswald says. He won't discuss this now. Even if he should. He knows that incarceration plays tricks on the mind, that a man will agree to anything to get through years behind bars. Promises made in prison rarely last beyond the front gates. 

But he's never claimed to be noble when getting what he wants. He lets Ed walk him to the master bedroom and over to the bed, and doesn't say a thing. 

Ed peers around the room, but it hasn't changed since the days when Ed would help him choose the day's tie. Freestanding mirrors in one corner, an ornate four-poster bed in the other and a bay window that looks out over the front gardens and the drive. The wallpaper is the same flocked burgundy it's always been, a warm comfort against the ebony furniture that absorbs the light. It's exactly the same. Even Ed looks timeless, the passing years only showing in deeper creases when he grins.

Oswald is the one who's changed. His reflection in the corner proves that. He's heavier, wider in the jaw, with fine scars down one cheek and hair starting to recede from his temples. It feels like every year that's passed has left a mark on him, and he suddenly wonders if he wants to show all of that to Ed. If it would be his best option right now. If it would make Ed more or less likely to stay.

Should he be thinking about what would make Ed stay? There's an uncomfortable twinge in his stomach, something that might be guilt. Surely, if Oswald truly cares, he'd do the right thing, even if it goes against his own self-interest. He'd give Ed a chance to change his mind. An offer of escape while Oswald can still let him go. 

Oswald considers it carefully. "If you want to sleep in the guest room, of course you can."

Frowning, Ed walks over to the mirror. Straightening the lapels of his jacket, Ed eyes his reflection. "I liked the suit."

"I'm glad. I hoped you would." Oswald sits on the bed to remove his shoes and the brace beneath his trouser leg. "The measurements were an estimate."

"No." Ed shakes his head but doesn't look around. "Your suit. I liked--" 

Ed stops before he finishes his sentence. It could be the lamplight in the room, but his face almost looks flushed. Oswald doesn't know how to interpret that. Sometimes, Ed looks at him and grins, and Oswald knows exactly what he's thinking. Sometimes, Oswald can't read him at all.

Oswald lines his shoes up at the end of the bed, tucked away so they won't be a tripping hazard in the dark. He places the brace beside them. "Ed?"

Ed gives his own reflection a sharp nod, something apparently decided. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I won't stay if you don't want me here." As Ed turns from the mirror, there's a flash of hurt in his eyes. Then he pushes those green glasses up his nose and pastes on a smirk. "The stresses of imprisonment can cause bonds to form that can't survive beyond the structured environment. It's a known fact."

Oswald buries his face in his hands, trying not to laugh. Sometimes, they're far too in-sync. It should make this easier, but it doesn't. "That's not the issue."

"No?"

With anyone else, Oswald would know the lies to spin. He'd play desperate or angry or pathetic, whatever would get him what he wants. But with Ed… Ed deserves the truth. And he's smart enough to figure it out eventually, Oswald knows that from experience. "If you stay tonight, I won't let you go. I won't, Ed. I won't give up my claim on you. I will hold you close until my dying breath, and I am hard to kill."

Ed blinks, tilting his head to the side. "Is that a bad thing?"

"It will be. If you want to leave, it will be. I can't promise--" Oswald stops, dragging a hand over his mouth. Forcing the words out. "If you change your mind, if you find someone else you want more, I'll kill them before I let them have you."

"That's not exactly news," Ed says, sitting down beside Oswald on the bed. Oswald glares at him, but Ed only shrugs. "Do you remember Dr Q?"

"Yes." Oswald's seen pictures. Young, blonde, pretty and bespectacled. Definitely not who he wants to talk about right now. He does not need to be reminded that Ed has a type, and it isn't him.

"She used to talk about communication. How everyone says it's so important in relationships but most people are bad at it. It's difficult. What you mean isn't what someone else hears."

"Is there a point to this?"

"Love," Ed says gently. "We talked about love."

For a moment, Oswald's vision floods red. There's a burst of sheer rage. He can't help thinking of Isabella, thinking of being so close only to have Ed fall for someone else. He can feel his fingernails clawing into his palms and his jaw clenching. Maybe he overestimated himself. Maybe even with six years to blur the memory of kissing Ed and holding him close, he's still not capable of stepping aside. Oswald swallows the bitterness in the back of his throat. "Oh?"

Ed frowns at his strangled tone. "We understand love through our experiences. For me, love has always been soft and warm and gently spoken. It's… sacrifice."

"Putting someone else's happiness before your own." Those words have haunted Oswald. Only when it was his life for Ed's did he realise how deeply he cared. That he knew his feelings weren't about ego or flattery or how Ed made him feel. It was who Ed was. Who Ed is. How the idea of Gotham without Ed is too terrible to imagine.

He suddenly knew that Ed was right. Ed's happiness should have been more important to Oswald. You can't claim to love someone if you don't care how they feel. That isn't love.

"Love is sacrifice. Sacrificing what you want, what you care about to keep them happy." Ed takes a shaky breath, hands clasped tightly in his lap, head bowed. His voice is an angry growl, bitter and resentful. "Love is effort. It's trying, over and over, to be better, to be enough. To be acceptable. Love is… unreliable. It's knowing they'll turn on you when you let them down, when you let them see you."

Oswald watches Ed carefully, not willing to interrupt.

Blinking, Ed stares down at his clenched knuckles and says in a painfully small voice, "I used to think love made you worthy. That if you tried hard enough, if you made them love you, you'd be… happy. Not alone. Not…"

Not lonely, Oswald thinks. He understands the sentiment too well. "Ed--"

"Maybe it doesn't matter. Dr Q said I should--" Ed shakes his head, giving a frustrated huff. "But most of those doctors are quacks. Who needs love?"

"What?"

"Aren't possession and jealousy a lot easier? Simpler. Same outcome," Ed says, looking at Oswald like that makes any sense. "Close enough."

It's the stupidest thing Oswald's ever heard, and he was once held at gunpoint by a ventriloquist's dummy. "No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"You are the smartest person I've ever met, but you're not infallible. In this case, you're wrong. That's not love."

"I can't be wrong," Ed replies smugly. "It's a subjective definition of truth."

"That's not love. Love is the person who knows you, knows your faults and is still on your side. Love is the person who worries when you're hurt and is happy when you succeed. Love is the person who believes in you, who knows the wonderful future you deserve." Oswald pauses for a moment, thinking of Ed. Thinking of his mother. Thinking of that overlap within his heart. "Love isn't always sweet and nice. Love doesn't stop you from being annoyed or frustrated, but love… Love is the person you want beside you, even if it's the two of you against the rest of the world. If you have to burn everything else down, love is the person you want standing in the ashes with you."

Ed shoots him an unimpressed look.

"Love is the person whose belief makes you stronger, who makes you feel safe and confident and seen," Oswald says passionately, but Ed keeps looking at him with that doubtful expression. "What?"

"That's a very convenient definition." Ed waves one bare hand, ticking off points on his fingers. "Stronger? Seen? You were the first person who really saw me, all of me. I'd happily burn Gotham to cinders unless you were in there, and you know it. It's a very blatant attempt to make me say a specific phrase."

Oswald snorts. This has nothing to do with forcing Ed to say something he doesn't want to say. "I don't need to hear the words. I need you to understand what I mean when I say that I love you. I know you. You don't need to be better, you don't need to be less than you are. I see you, Edward Nygma."

Ed lifts the bowler hat off his head and rests it in his lap. Slowly, he runs a finger over the silver tie pin on his chest, tracing the question mark. "And I'm supposed to be scared that you won't give me up?"

"Most people would be," Oswald says, but the words ring false. Ed is not most people. He never has been. Ed is bright smiles and curiosity and sharply focused attention. Ed has no squeamishness about violence and thinks the law is arbitrary, and cares more about discovering a way to do something than achieving the outcome. Ed is dramatic and joyful, brilliantly clever and fun, but he's never been scared of Oswald the way everyone else is. They all underestimate Oswald until they learn to fear him, but Ed has always been fascinated by Oswald's sharp edges.

The face Ed pulls makes it quite clear how little he thinks of most people. "Just to make it clear, I'm staying here tonight."

It occurs to Oswald that Ed has always seen Oswald's flaws and imperfections. He's seen Oswald moping and despondent, injured and weak. He's seen Oswald lose his composure, lose his territory and his men, and claw it back from nothing. He's seen all of that, and he's still here. Still looking at Oswald like Oswald is the only person worth talking to. "For the record, I tried to talk you out of it."

"Consider the fine print read and initialed." With a flick of the wrist, Ed sends his hat spinning through the air to land on the chair in the corner. He leans one arm on the bed and beams at Oswald, voice dropping to a low rumble. "Since you paid for this wonderful suit, I think you should be the one to take it off me."

"Oh, I should, should I?" Oswald murmurs back, hooking two fingers between the buttons of Ed's waistcoat and tugging him closer. He leans in, lips brushing against Ed's cheek. "What else should I do?"

Ed lets out a shaky breath. He curves towards Oswald like a flower seeking sunlight, turns his head until he's pressing parted lips against Oswald's mouth. It's as gentle as a whisper, a warm invitation, and Oswald finds himself cradling Ed's face in his hands. Holding Ed like something precious and delicate as he loses himself in the warmth of Ed's mouth, the delicious way he gasps Oswald's name when Oswald nips at his bottom lip.

They fall into it like a dance, like a half-remembered song. Delight and relief bubbles in Oswald's chest. He'd been a fool to fear that too much had changed. Oswald presses a kiss to Ed's jaw, to the curve of his neck, and then has to pull back to work Ed's tie free.

"I was right, you know," Ed says, grinning as Oswald slides the knot loose.

Oswald tugs the ends of Ed's tie free and pauses, holding an end of the fabric in each hand. He nearly doesn't ask. He probably doesn't want to know. "About what?"

"The top hat." Ed rests his hands over Oswald's wrists, long fingers curling over his pulse points. "It looked good on you."

"Do you really want to discuss fashion now?" Oswald asks. Ed opens his mouth to reply and Oswald kisses him before Ed distracts them both.

***

It's still dark when Oswald wakes up. Oh, how he's missed the simple luxury of heavy curtains and waking in a dark room. On the far side of the wide bed, Ed's lying on his back, head turned towards Oswald. Oswald assumes Ed's awake, just lying there watching him. It's an Ed thing to do. "What time is it?"

"Nearly ten," Ed replies easily. "We didn't get to sleep until… late."

"And how long have you been lying there watching me?"

"You made noises every time I tried to get out of bed. I didn't want to wake you."

"Next time," Oswald says, leaning over to switch on a lamp, "just get up. I'll fall back asleep."

Ed shrugs. "I didn't want you to wake and wonder where I'd gone."

Oswald wouldn't worry if Ed was somewhere in the manor, so Ed's probably not talking about having a shower or making breakfast. "Where would you go?"

"The docks. The Narrows. I'm thinking about setting up the Riddle Factory again. That was fun," Ed says with a wide, white grin.

"And profitable," Oswald adds because he pays attention to where the dissolute and desperate spend their money in Gotham. He's not fond of the idea of Ed disappearing back into the Narrows. The people of the Narrows don't forget a slight, and the Penguin doesn't have much sway there. "What about Chinatown?"

"I don't want it on your territory," Ed says, and Oswald gives him an unimpressed glare. "I'll be a target for the GCPD. I don't want to bring unnecessary trouble to your door."

"Chinatown isn't technically mine."

"You control it."

"I have influence over the Triad. That's a different thing."

"I'll think about it," Ed says, and then does the sneakiest thing Oswald's ever seen him do. He leans into Oswald, turning his face into Oswald's neck and pressing a light kiss to the bitemark he made last night. It's downright underhanded. "I'm still going to visit the Narrows. I want to know more about this Bat."

"The Bat? That's what we're calling him?"

Ed hides his giggle against Oswald's neck. "Says the _Penguin_."

Oswald gives in to his urge to curl his hands around Ed's shoulders. "Fine. The Bat."

***


	8. Epilogue

The nice thing about having a house as large as the manor is the sheer number of rooms. It's no hardship to give Ed a few rooms to himself, even if half of them end up cluttered with ridiculous mementos and baubles. (Ed claims some of them are priceless artworks, but Oswald doesn't see any value in a statue made of coathangers or crowbars.) The other half have become large mind maps, entire walls pinned with sketches and articles and coloured string tying one idea to the next. Oswald likes the heist ones, the blueprints mixed with photos of employees, the scribbled notes in red and green and purple that he can sometimes follow and sometimes needs Ed to decipher. There's an entire room dedicated to the Bat, and Ed happily pins any new scrap of information to the walls. He hasn't solved it, but Ed likes having an unsolvable puzzle.

This one looks like a heist: glossy magazine articles on European museums, a photocopy of a passport with scribbled notes about ID numbers and date of birth information, schematics for what could be an alarm system. Oswald approves of it, but he doesn't approve of its location. 

"Why is this here?" he asks the empty office. Obviously, there's no answer.

Oswald takes one long look at the mess taped to the window behind his desk, and then turns to stalk out to the club. If the club was open, he'd look at the bar. Ed's taken over one particular stool, a spot where he claims he can see all exits without being deafened by the acoustics. For someone who doesn't want to work on Oswald's territory, he's perfectly happy to spend his free time at Oswald's club, sitting at the bar or wandering into Oswald's office like he owns it.

Oswald finds him sitting in one of the back corner booths. He's filling out the sudoku puzzle in today's newspaper, timing himself with the vintage Rolex on his wrist. Honestly, that watch has more dials than any watch should need. Predictably, Ed loved it at first sight. He'd been so enraptured by its engineering that Oswald bought it for him, legally.

"Why is that mess in my office?"

Ed scribbles in the last few numbers, checks the watch, and then looks up at Oswald. He grins. "I wanted your opinion."

"And you couldn't show me at home?"

"Olga was snooping."

"I trust Olga with my life. I trust her with yours," Oswald says, ignoring the fact that Olga still doesn't like Ed.

(In his first month out of Blackgate she approached Oswald in the kitchen, nodded toward Ed and said, "I have nephew. He much better looking." Oswald's never told Ed about that. Ed has a surprisingly possessive streak. As flattering as Ed's bursts of temper can be, Olga does an excellent job of running the manor and Oswald has no intention of replacing her. She really is great at removing stains.)

"What did you want my opinion on?"

"There's an exhibition travelling to Gotham next month."

"You wanted to steal more art?" Oswald asks, with limited enthusiasm.

Ed's grin grows wider. He's obviously pleased with himself. "I wanted to kidnap the artist."

"And how profitable would kidnapping a penniless artist be?"

"I wasn't going to ransom him. I wanted him to paint a portrait. Replace the one over the landing." The one over the landing was once a portrait of them both but now has a bright green question mark spray-painted over it. Oswald keeps it on the wall as a reminder, both of how far they've come since those days and how petty Ed can be when he's angry.

He's not opposed to replacing that picture, but kidnapping seems extreme. Sitting down, Oswald says, "We could just pay him."

"You could, but he'd be painting one of Gotham's most wanted." Ed is very proud of the fact that he remains in the top five of that list. Other villains come and go, but, as long as the Riddler is still wanted by the GCPD, Ed's mostly content with smaller, successful crimes. "This way, if it's tracked back to him, he can report the kidnapping and say he feared for his life."

The pair of them are an open secret in Gotham's underworld. If someone wants to find the Riddler, they come to the Iceberg Lounge. If someone needs to get a message to the Penguin without it being traced back to them, they tell the Riddler. It's a cat-and-mouse game with the GCPD. They know Ed lives with Oswald, but they can't get a warrant to search the manor; they know Ed frequents the club, but they never find him there when they stop by. There's a balance that needs to be maintained. "And my involvement? How would you explain that?"

"You could play along, pretend you were kidnapped too."

It takes time to paint a portrait. Oswald's not going to be handcuffed in some dingy warehouse for days. "No."

Ed frowns at him. "Oswald, you're ruining the surprise." 

Ed loves surprises. Oswald only likes the ones that surprise other people. Steepling his fingers together, Oswald thinks. The mess taped to his window isn't a plan but a clue, because Ed always gives other people a chance to work his puzzles out. Museums and Europe. Oil paintings of dappled shadow. Kidnapping. Oswald stares at Ed, and Ed grins when he sees that Oswald understands. 

"Martin's coming back to Gotham?" Oswald asks quietly. Beneath the table and out of sight of staff setting up the bar, he rests a hand on Ed's leg. There are some things he has no intention of sharing with the rest of Gotham.

"It's a showcase of young artists," Ed says happily. "Metropolis, Gotham and then a few more cities before the collection goes to Canada."

"So the kidnapping is…" Oswald trails off, considering. Martin wouldn't betray them, so it's not Ed protecting himself from the GCPD.

"If the Riddler holds an artist hostage until he corrects a painting, no one's going to think that's unusual. If the Penguin is seen spending time with a young artist, everyone will notice that."

There would be a lot of talk in the underworld. Whether they'd assume Martin to be a relation or a lover, he'd be a target for being close to the Penguin. Ed's also a target, but Ed enjoys a chance to see his boobytraps in action. After the first few casualties, most decided it wasn't a risk worth taking. It's considered safer to approach the Penguin directly, a fact that amuses Oswald and makes him glow with pride on Ed's behalf.

"Kidnapping it is. At least the month gives us time to find an appropriate safehouse." It's the first time he's seen Martin in a decade. It will not be at a dirty warehouse. 

"And plan an Arkham escape." When Oswald raises an eyebrow at Ed, he adds, "I don't want any interruptions while Martin's here. Having to round up the escapees will keep the Bat busy."

"You do think of everything." At Ed's soft, pleased smile, Oswald gives an affectionate squeeze and then withdraws his hand. He has to leave for a meeting with Sammy Wu, otherwise he'd stay and help Ed plan. Oswald stands up, smoothing his jacket. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

Resting his chin on his fist, Ed grins at him, mischievous and happy. "I've got this, Oswald. Go put the fear of the Penguin into the Triad."


End file.
